


Cramer Street: Part III

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural
Genre: Art, Bacon, Cake, England (Country), F/M, Family, Fan-fiction, Friendship, Government Conspiracy, Happy Ending, Infidelity, Johnlock - Freeform, London, Love at First Sight, M/M, Marriage, Nobility, Plague, Police, Royalty, Secrets, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Victorian, Wales, Wiltshire, norfolk, polynesia - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22129864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1882-1883. A short but dramatic era in the lives of Holmes and Watson, featuring a penetrative Polynesian, a man standing around with no clothes on, a street encounter that is not what it seems and yet another potential Holmes family member. We fully meet the Hawke/Buckingham family who will play a pivotal role in Holmes's life (and indeed already have done, unbeknown to him), as well as the pistol-packing Mrs. Violet Hudson with her house at 221B, Baker Street. Unfortunately Holmes's secrecy is starting to catch up with him.
Relationships: Lucifer/OMC, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Elementary 366 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Comments: 13
Kudos: 15





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts), [vitabear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitabear/gifts).



> This series is completely written and will be updated daily until done.  
> New cases are marked ☼.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page.

** 1882 **

**Interlude: A Piece Of Paper**  
by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire  
_Holmes's life begins to unravel_

 **Case 55: Relatively Speaking**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Just what the great detective needs in his life – more family!_

 **Case 56: The Adventure Of The Artful Persuasion ☼**  
by Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, Esquire  
_Holmes helps Benji by letting someone see the fellow naked_

 **Case 57: The Adventure Of The Potent Potentate**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A Polynesian prince brings problems for both doctor and detective_

 **Interlude: Benji**  
by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire  
_Lucifer finds that some things in life are destined not to change_

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** 1883 **

**Case 58: The Adventure Of The Hawke Inheritance**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Holmes gets a second shock as a face from the past reappears_

 **Case 59: The Adventure Of The Infelicitous Interview ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Amid his other troubles, Holmes helps out his friend LeStrade_

 **Case 60: The Adventure Of The Yellow Face**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Enter Mrs. Hudson and 221B Baker Street – but exit Mr. Hudson_

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	2. Interlude: A Piece Of Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. Lucifer discovers that the devil is in the detail.

_[Narration by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire]_

I was too wise to think that I had ever seen it all, but this? Seriously?

I stared across at Carl and sighed. I ran an important government department and he was in charge of a large number of armed men, yet we were both powerless to do anything to avert the coming catastrophe.

“Poor Sherlock”, I said. “Even poorer John. This will likely be the ruin of him!”

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This whole sorry mess began with a death in the family. Great-Uncle Edmund had always been one of those relatives who had been 'there but not there'; he was a family member and all that, but he had lived his life as a recluse and had made clear that he wanted nothing to do with the rest of us. He had had three daughters, all of whom had married to disoblige him, plus a son whom he had adopted and who was currently away somewhere. Hence my uncle Sir Edward had asked the two of us to sort through his papers and make sure that everything was in order. The old fellow had indeed arranged everything – up to and including the terrible piece of paper that I now held in my hand.

“Can there be any doubt?” Carl asked hopefully.

“We can but hope”, I said, although I very much doubted that we could be that lucky. “Fortunately I can make some inquiries in order to make sure, but if this is what it says.... John Watson is sitting on a time-bomb. If – when this comes out, it will finish him!”

Carl looked pointedly at me, knowing full well the unspoken truth that I had left out there. Poor Sherlock, the ultimate in emotional icebergs, was as we both knew very close to the doctor and he would have to be told first.

“He will not want his friend to know”, Carl said with certainty. “I can understand that secretive side to him, having to grow up in our family, but this sort of thing is bound to come out. It always does, worse luck.”

I thought about that for a moment, then looked at the family tree that had been appended to the bottom of the document in my hand.

“It well may”, I said. “Especially when more than one gentleman knows already. Perhaps..... yes, perhaps we might just be prepared for when it does....”

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	3. Case 55: Relatively Speaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. After what would turn out to be the first of a series of shocking discoveries about his family, Holmes takes Watson on another trip to Wales in an attempt to track down the one thing the great detective would have been absolutely certain that he did not need in this world.  
> Another brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of stillbirth.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

There had been no sign of trouble when Carl had asked me to visit him at his barracks, although I had been a little surprised that he had chosen there rather than his London flat which was nearer to Cramer Street. I was even more surprised when he had asked that I not bring Watson as this was 'a family matter'. But not as surprised as when I arrived to find our cousin Luke there as well. 

(Since I shall shortly be covering matters deep, I shall make the light aside here that I always thought it odd that not only did we Holmes brothers look quite different physically, Carl and Luke might well have been twins as they were so close in appearance; thankfully Carl was three months older so that was impossible. I had not made any inquiries into that particular hornet's nest for two reasons; first it was none of my business and second, if my mother ever found out then as Watson had said after meeting them both and having made the same observation, she might well write a story about it!).

“I am afraid that Great-Uncle Edmund has passed”, Carl said as I sat down.

That did not seem a particularly good reason to drag me across half of Middlesex let alone to part me from Watson. True, my uncle had stepped in to help his father Thomas raise my father since the latter had been but five when his own father George had died, but thereafter they..... well, they had not been on bad terms exactly but there had simply been no contact between them, each preferring to live his own life. My uncle had been the atypical Victorian curmudgeon, never marrying and preferring to stay at home and smoke while declaiming on the ills of the world and how he would cure them if given the chance. He had I knew had three daughters all of whom he had considered a disappointment (with good reason, it might be said) and had possibly as a result adopted some distant orphan cousin upon whom I assumed he had settled whatever he had had.

“I am to take it that there is more to it than that” I said. “Unless Great-Uncle Edmund was secretly a German spy, I see no reason why I could not have brought Watson.”

The two exchanged similar (and disturbingly synchronized) looks. I began to feel uneasy.

“Because it concerns your friend”, Carl said quietly.

_What?_

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“Do you remember that when Watson's father died, Father stepped in and helped his mother out with her finances?” Carl said.

“His first wife, Campbell's mother, was a friend of hers if I remember”, I said impatiently. “So?”

Two more looks. My feeling of unease only increased.

“That was not the real connection”, Luke said grimly. “Father also had a connection with Watson's father's sister, a woman called Cassandra. A _horizontal_ connection.”

I reeled in shock. That mean that Watson and I were.... not cousins thankfully but...... oh Lord, Mother!

“We know that Father and Mother were having.... problems around the time of your birth”, Carl said awkwardly. “Mother had that stillborn daughter the year before, then Father was involved in a government scandal – unfairly, but the newspapers then as now never let facts get in the way of a good story. He had to go into a sanatorium for a while and Mother returned to Ireland to have you.”

“I know that”, I said warily.

“They got back together at the start of 'Fifty-Four”, Luke said, looking even more worried now. “Father was supposed to join Mother for the birth but... he got distracted. Watson's aunt, who was married at the time to a fellow called Mr. Richard Newton – she was the distraction.”

I took a deep breath and asked the obvious question.

“Children?”

Carl nodded.

“One son”, he said. “A boy called Teledamus, presumably because that was one of the sons of the mythical Cassandra. He cannot have been Mr. Newton's; according to the medical reports he was only capable of firing blanks as they say. Mr. Teledamus Newton is therefore our half-brother as well as Watson's half-cousin. His mother died giving birth to him and Father funded his upbringing; that was also why he did so much for Watson when his parents died. Guilt.”

I grasped my chair's arm-rests. This could not be worse!

“It gets worse”, Luke said grimly. “Has Watson ever told you about his paternal grandfather?”

“He does not like talking about that side of his family”, I said, “which given that his father died drunk in a ditch and he was the one who found him, I can well understand. I think that the fellow you are asking about was called Saul and was in the Army, but he left after an injury. Why?”

Another two looks.

“Captain Saul Watson was not his grandfather”, Luke said carefully. “I found out when looking into Miss Cassandra Watson's background. It is terrible!”

“How bad can it be?” I asked, now very worried.

“For poor Watson, it could not be worse!” Carl said grimly. “Captain Saul Watson gave out that he had adopted two distant cousins, Cassandra and her elder brother Henry, Watson's father. That was not the whole truth. They were in fact the illegitimate offspring of the captain's elder brother – _that blackest of blackguards, Lieutenant Sacheverell Watson!”_

And with that, the bottom fell out of my world!

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I do not know how Watson writes our adventures up so well, for I not only find maintaining a narrative difficult but now have several things to explain before I can fully begin this story. So I am going to try to concentrate on one thing in particular that would shortly become of great import, yet might well confuse readers in later generations. 

There were two fundamentals in Victorian life; family and honour. When a family member behaved without honour, it tarnished his whole family and in particular their descendants. And no-one in the nineteenth century thus far had behaved with more dishonour that Lieutenant Sacheverell Watson, scum of the earth and, so horribly, my best friend's grandfather!

Even seven decades on the treachery of Lieutenant Watson was still a topic that elicited a strong response when it came up. During the famous battle of Waterloo back in 1815 things had looked dark as the day had worn on, and at one point the British and Allied position had wavered. Lieutenant Watson had been ordered to take his unit to bolster the crumbling defences of La Haye Sainte, one of the key strong points that had to be held for as long as possible and at least until the Prussians made their belated entry onto the battlefield. The lieutenant had flatly refused – his mother had been French, which may have been a factor - and his fellow officer, a Lieutenant Stuart James, had promptly shot him and had then led his men on, many of whom had died as a result but in so doing had helped to save the day by delaying the French advance long enough for the Prussians to arrive. There had been some talk of a prosecution against Lieutenant James after the battle – he had been very badly injured although he had survived - but very wisely this was dropped after the personal intervention of Wellington himself.

This is important as readers of later generations will I think find it hard to understand my friend's subsequent actions without first comprehending the extent of the fallout caused by his grandfather's actions. Most important of all, if it were ever to come out that my friend was the grandson of a traitor then his career as a doctor would be over in an instant, for who would want to be treated by someone with ancestors like _that?_ It was bitterly unfair but it was the way of the world. The man I..... respected more than any other was sitting on a time-bomb!

“Yes, _that_ Lieutenant Sacheverell Watson”, Carl said as I tried to grasp the certain ruination that awaited my friend if this ever came to light. “It is hardly an uncommon name. The villain; his name is mud even seven decades on!”

“Uncle Edmund left Father certain papers”, Carl explained. “I can only think that Father was not aware that he knew so much, otherwise he would surely have not asked us both to help sort out the estate.”

I forced myself to ask the obvious next question.

_Does Mother know?”_

Even more creepily, they crossed themselves at the same time. 

“Yes”, Carl sighed. “I am afraid that she is coping with it in the usual way.”

 _In other words she is writing a story about it_ , I thought with a shudder. No visits to the family home if they could be avoided for the immediate future.

“What do we know of this Teledamus fellow?” I asked.

“He lives in a place called Mundesley-on-Sea, in Norfolk”, Luke said. “We thought that you might go there and check up on him.”

“I can hardly go all the way to East Anglia without Watson!” I scoffed. “He will know that something is amiss.”

“We thought you might say that you had been asked merely to check up on the fellow by a concerned and anonymous family relative who demands absolute secrecy”, Carl offered.

I snorted at that.

“You have been reading too many of Mother's stories of late!” I said.

“Obviously not”, he grinned. “I am still sane!”

I glared at him. Family! And now I had even more of the dratted things!

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After a lot of thought on the matter I had decided to come clean – well, sort of clean – to Watson in that I told him Mr. Teledamus Newton was my half-brother without mentioning the name of the fellow's mother. I knew of course that he could keep a secret and besides, it likely made him think that that was my sole reason for being ever so slightly off. 

However, before we had a chance to track down yet another sibling of mine (ugh!), there was an unexpected further development. Mr. Newton suddenly decamped to a small house in Carnarvonshire, right across the country. Hence Watson and I had to abandon our plans for Norfolk and instead take a London & North Western Railway train to the ancient city of Chester whence we had had another long journey to the fortress city of Carnarvon. Even with the wonders of the modern railway system this was a major trip, and Watson was not surprised when I suggested that we find somewhere in the small town for the night before continuing our journey on the morrow. Besides, I knew how much he was into old buildings and I was sure I could get us into the castle once we were done. We could have got quite a bit nearer our destination but Watson did not need to know that, and if he did ask I would just say that the hotels here were better. 

The next day we hired a carriage to take us the twenty or so miles to our destination. Watson told me that although the tiny hamlet of Porthduilleyn did not even feature on most maps things could have been so different as back at back at the start of the century its wide natural harbour had been envisaged as the main departure port for Ireland. However the more accessible Holyhead on the Isle of Anglesey had won the island port that accolade, and several plans since to link this not-metropolis and its harbour to the railway system had all come to naught. 

“At least it should be easy to find this fellow”, Watson said as our cart breasted the hill and looked down onto the wide and almost empty harbour ahead of us. It was a most attractive place, made even more so by the beautiful clear blue skies that day.

“Perhaps not”, I said. “I do not know the address where he is staying, or for that matter if he lives in either Porthduilleyn village or just somewhere on the harbour. There are two other villages along those broad beaches so we may have to work our way through each in turn. But we shall try the obvious first.”

We drove through Nevin and Morva Nevin, taking a sharp right turn in the latter onto a surprisingly fair-quality road that led along a narrow peninsula. Eventually the road split again, one road straight on leading to the headland visible in the distance and the other right and down into Porthduilleyn village, whither we went. There was a post-office even in a place this small so we went in and asked if the lady knew of a Mr. Newton recently arrived to the area. I pointedly did not smile when the postmistress, who would have got little if any change out of sixty, simpered at me in a way that had a certain doctor shuffling his feet for no good reason, but luckily she did know of the new English gentleman who she said was pleasant enough. He lived in Telford Cottage on the seafront which we were told was the sole yellow house. She also looked rather oddly at Watson for some reason, although that was definitely not a simper. I wondered why.

“We have no idea why he crossed the width of England and Wales”, Watson mused. “He could hardly have gotten any further west without having crossed to Ireland!”

“That is one curious thing”, I admitted. “There seems no reason for his move; his financial situation was a solid enough one and he had no reason to quit Norfolk. I wonder what caused such a seismic shift?”

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We walked to 'Telford Cottage' which was one of a set of six identical cottages each painted a different pastel shade making a pleasant splash of colour along the quiet seafront. We walked up the pathway through what I thought an indifferently-maintained garden and knocked at the door. For a few moments I wondered if the owner was out but after a while we heard the sound of someone approaching. Then the door was pulled open to reveal Mr. Teledamus Newton. 

I had to work hard not to step back in shock! Apart from the height this fellow was the image of the man behind me, but in such a way that I hoped never to see my friend. The only differences were that this fellow's hair was blond and long while the eyes pale blue rather than hazel and, I thought, almost lifeless as he stared at us both. I was deeply thankful that I had not told my friend the whole truth, as otherwise he would surely have recognized his cousin. There were barely three years between them, although in his current state this fellow looked the older of the two.

“My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said, recovering somewhat, “and this is Doctor John Watson. My father Sir Edward Holmes had some financial dealings with your late mother's family.”

He seemed almost to stare right through me, but nodded dully.

“Yes, I was told he helped her out one time”, he said, his voice flat. “Why have you come here?”

Fortunately Carl and Luke had covered this one, although given the train-wreck that they had made of my previously well-ordered life that was the very least that they could have done.

“My Uncle Edmund died recently and left a will which included a small bequest to your mother”, I said. “The family lawyer said that this fell to you, so I was asked to track you down. I hope you are all right?”

The fellow laughed hollowly.

“I have just crossed the breadth of England having been rejected by the one I loved”, he said bitterly. “I am far from 'all right', sir.”

“How can we help?” I asked.

Our host looked at us both uncertainly, then sighed.

“I suppose a trouble shared and all that”, he said. “You might as well know the whole sorry story.”

He ushered us in, poured us all drinks and we sat down in his main room. Damnation, he even _moved_ like Watson!

“My father died just over ten years ago”, the fellow said, “and your uncle, sir, very kindly sought me out then to see that I was all right. Fortunately I had a small sum to inherit and through his offices I was able to secure a post working as a clerk in Mundesley, away in Norfolk. It is an out of the way sort of place but I liked it and was happy there. Your uncle also managed to get me a part-time job with a company of London printers, correcting manuscripts sent to me through the general post, so I was doing well all things considered.”

“The largest place around Mundesley was Lord Kelling's estate, Kingsbourne, and I would often walk around the place. He is a cousin of the Marquess of Queensberry, not someone that I would wish to cross but a fair man, or so it is said. Lord Kelling came to know of my work and asked me to visit Kingsbourne because he had a lot of ancient documents written in short form and wondered if I could translate them for him. It was extra money so I said yes.”

“One day a few weeks back I was walking home from the house when I got caught in a sudden downpour. I decided to take shelter in a nearby wood which, I knew, had a small lake in it. It was there that I saw the most beautiful man ever to grace this Earth! You know those stylised drawings they do in the magazines of the idealized Victorian male gentleman; this was the real thing. And he was stark naked!”

“He was of course mortified by my arrival on the scene, but after the sort of awkwardness one might have expected in such a situation we fell to talking. The Adonis was Mr. Alan Douglas; he was steward to Lord Kelling as well as being a distant cousin to both him and the Marquis, and he was as beautiful inside as out. It was with reluctance that I left him and went back to my house that day.”

_(I am going to have to make another aside here to cover one of the most famous names in late Victorian England, although that 'fame' happened over a decade after the events of this story. John Douglas, Marquis of Queensberry, was one of the leading noblemen of his day and was already famous for codifying the rules of pugilism back in the 'sixties, although these had in fact been written by someone else and merely 'sponsored' by him. In those days however his links to two famous instances of his sons' sexual relations were a much greater talking-point. His eldest son Francis was private secretary to the Liberal politician Archibald, Earl of Rosebery, and the gossip that he was rather more would only intensify two years after this story is set when the young man took his own life. The Marquis's second son Percy became his heir and he not understandably became very protective over him and his other sons – which years later proved disastrous for just about everyone when Percy's brother Alfred 'Boise' Douglas took up with the writer Mr. Oscar Wilde)._

The wreck of a fellow before drew a ragged breath before continuing. 

“It took me ages but I finally plucked up courage to approach the fellow and to tell him how I felt”, he said. “It could not have gone worse!”

We both looked at him expectantly.

“Nothing!” he blurted out. “He just stood there, his mouth flapping open. Even a no would have been better, damnation! I turned and ran, somehow managed to pack a few things and went to catch a train. I thought that if I put as much of England – and Wales – between me and my misery it would make me feel better. My grandmother brought me here on holiday one time, you see, and the owner of the place said that I could come back any time after I did some manuscript work for him. Thankfully it is October so well out of season.”

“Did it make you feel better?” I asked tentatively. He shook his head.

“Now half of me thinks I should go back and ask him again”, he said bitterly, “and half thinks that a second rejection would kill me!”

“To be fair to Mr. Douglas you did not really receive a first rejection”, I said. “You mentioned that he is a relative of both Lord Kelling and the Marquis. Do you know how close they are?”

He nodded.

“He is first cousin once removed to them both”, he said, “but through an illegitimate line. The Marquis's great-uncle Malcolm Douglas had an affair while at college and he was the result.”

 _In other words the usual arrangement_ , I thought wryly. _Pack the bastard offspring off somewhere safely out of sight and pay them to keep their mouth shut._

“At least we can spare you some of that angst”, I said. “We shall go to Mundesley and see this gentleman for you.”

Even Watson looked at me incredulously. For all that this was the Railway Age the network was very much centred on London, and most definitely not designed for anyone trying to cut across the county.

“That would be a horrendous journey”, our host said.

“Watson?” I asked.

He rallied well.

“The fastest way would be to go back to London then up the Great Eastern Railway”, he said. “They run expresses to Cromer although I think that they go later in the day; we would probably do better to take an early train, change at Norwich then alight at North Walsham.”

I turned back to our host.

“Promise us that you will wait for our return”, I said.

He knew what I was really asking but nodded. I only hoped that he was telling the truth.

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Watson, bless the fellow, waited until we were headed back to Carnarvon before he said it.

“You are afraid that he might try to take his own life?” he asked.

“You are the doctor”, I pointed out. “How many times have you observed the frailty of the human form, or the fact that so many of the ailments that you treat are as much mental as physical? Yes that does worry me, especially given the way that society still regards the act of suicide.”

“I doubt that he thinks much of society just now”, he said. The weather had changed markedly during our time in the cottage and a thick fog was rolling in off the Irish Sea. I shivered.

“I was thinking also of this Mr. Douglas”, I said. “His feelings must be weighed in this matter as well. You know how society is; for one gentleman to suddenly blurt out how much they admire and.... like another – it was bound to have come as a shock.”

Coward that I was, 'like' had not been the word starting with the twelfth letter of the alphabet that I had intended to use. Not for the first time I thought of the man sat beside me and wondered.....

No. I was foolish to even think such a thing.

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Despite the encroaching fog we made good time back to Carnarvon and were able to make a train to Chester that would connect with one on to London. We could spend the night in Cramer Street and then strike out for Norfolk the following day. We were both quieter than usual, feeling the gravity of this case weighing down on us both.

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_(How Watson does this as well as he does, I do not know. In light of what happened later I had best take the time here to explain a bit about the matter of sex between men which, as all Victorians knew, happened. Somewhere. Just not anywhere near them, thank you very much._

_The year that this story was set is important, because only a few years later there would be a definite legal shift with the criminalization of buggery in 1885. Before that such things only tended to reach the courts when someone made a fuss, and the standard sentence was, incredibly, death, although this was always commuted to a year or so in gaol. Most Victorians took the Great Elizabeth attitude; ignore something you do not like and it will either go away or stop being a problem. Attitudes did not really change until the infamous and aforementioned Oscar Wilde case in the nineties, which gentleman brought down most of the troubles onto his own head because he could not handle the concept of discretion. I was sure for example that everyone who knew my cousin Luke was fully cognisant of the fact that his footman Mr. Anthony 'Tiny' Little was rather more than just a footman, but neither gentleman proclaimed what they had so that was all right._

_People were complicated. I could almost empathize with Gregson's and LeStrade's boss Inspector Macdonald with his attitude towards Mankind)._

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As Watson had said our first target the next day was the small village of North Walsham beyond Norwich. The village whither our client had fled lay some five miles away, as Mr. Newton had said almost as far as one could go from Porthduilleyn without getting one's feet wet. I only hoped that we would be lucky and not find that our quarry this time had also wandered off.

It seemed the the Gods were with us on that at least for the lady at the local post-office (whom Watson did not growl at; he later claimed that he had just 'coughed') looked at me rather oddly but told me that yes, that nice Mr. Douglas was here and had a small cottage in Sea View Lane, number twenty-three (not living with his cousin at the big house with its copious empty rooms, I noted). I only hope that she was able to get whatever was making her wink so out of her eye. I offered to buy Watson some pastilles for the 'cough' that he had suddenly acquired but he just glared at me. How strange.

There was a gentleman of about Watson's age working in the garden of said cottage and he stood up when our carriage pulled up. Even at a distance I could see that he cut an impressive figure; it was a warm day and he was bare-chested, his muscles rippling across a broad chest. He had sharply-cut dark blond hair, a moustache and, hair colour apart, looked almost exactly like the portrayal of Stamford in Watson's first ever story in the 'Strand' magazine (I mention this because that drawing had in fact been very little like Watson's friend and several people had remarked on it to him, usually in tones of disappointment!).

“Mr. Alan Douglas?” I asked as we approached. 

He looked at us warily.

“Who might be wanting to know?” he said.

“We have come from Porthduilleyn, in Wales”, I said. “From Mr. Newton.”

He clearly attempted not to react to that and failed by a long chalk. He was visibly tense.

“How is Ted?” he asked.

“Not good”, I said. “Few gentlemen are when they receive that sort of reaction to their declarations of undying love.”

The tall fellow snorted but I could see that he had been affected by my choice of words.

“He is a gentleman”, he said stiffly, “and despite my noble lineage I am both a bastard and a servant. What could he possibly see in _me?”_

“Someone to love”, I said simply. “As the Bard himself said, love has neither rhyme nor reason. People do not get to choose whom they love or do not love. You very clearly feel something for him, yet you let him go.”

The fellow looked down at the flower-bed he had been working on.

“He sort of surprised me”, he said, visibly embarrassed. “That first time was bad enough with him blundering in on me when I was bathing in the lake; you don't exactly make a good impression when you stand up bare-arse naked in front of someone.”

I rather suspected that he had made a quite favourable impression but was wise enough not to say it.

“You did not go after him the second time?” I asked instead. He sighed.

“I went to the pub for a stiff drink or three”, he said. “Got totally bladdered – first time in my life I'd ever done that – and when I'd sobered up I went round to his house the next day but he'd gone. I'd lost him.”

“Yet what goes can also return”, I said. “If you do wish to have something between you then you will have to go and fetch him back.”

He looked at us both uncertainly.

“You think he might come?” he asked.

I hesitated.

“I rather fear”, I said slowly, “that the consequences of any further delay might be.... unpleasant.”

His brown eyes widened in shock. He clearly got what I was saying.

“Lord Kelling”, he said nervously. “He will not be happy with me taking a few days off unannounced.”

“I am sure that I can persuade him”, I said. “You should go and pack a few things. Although I doubt that you will need that many clothes.”

He blushed fiercely at that.

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Kingsbourne lay just this side of the town of Cromer and we headed there, stopping only at a post-office where I took the opportunity to send a telegram to Mr. Newton to let him know matters were being sorted. Fortunately Lord Kelling was more than amenable to my request, much to Mr. Douglas's surprise.

“He is not a bad stick as bosses go”, he said, “but he does not usually give time off.”

“I 'borrowed' you for two weeks”, I said as we reached the station, “telling him I needed you for an important investigation of mine. We can make the Cromer Express back to London which, with a bit of luck, will mean that we can catch a late train up to Chester. I very much doubt that we will make Carnarvon but you never know.”

“But what about a ticket, sir?” he asked. “It is a fair distance.”

“I have purchased you an open return”, I said, “so you can come back any time. Just make sure that you sort things out within two weeks. I think that that should be, ahem, _long_ enough!”

Watson rolled his eyes at my _innuendo_ while Mr. Douglas blushed again.

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I had underestimated the London & North Western Railway for there was a late train from Chester to Carnarvon although we had to change at Bangor. Watson was clearly flagging as we reached the old county palatine and even I was tired after our long day's travelling but Mr. Douglas was clearly desperate to go on so on we went. We reached Carnarvon at a little after ten o' clock; I could see from his face that the young fellow still wished to continue but he was almost as exhausted as we were. We found a decent hotel and secured rooms for the night. I slept like a log.

The next day dawned bright and cheerful made even more so by the arrival of bacon for breakfast. Mr. Douglas was clearly so tense that he could hardly eat but I insisted.

“It is twenty miles to Porthduilleyn”, I pointed out, “and you do not want to arrive there hungry.”

He nodded and did manage to eat something, although he smiled as he saw Watson hand me over half his bacon. I had no idea why; that was just normal. After breakfast we went outside to find a carriage waiting. I turned to Mr. Douglas.

“This is where we part”, I said gently. “We wish you well in your endeavours. We are going to spend a few days in the town so a telegram to our hotel letting us know what has happened would be appreciated. If one of you can make it to the post-office that is.”

He blushed again, thanked us both for our efforts and leaped up onto the carriage before hurrying off.

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We had an enjoyable day in the town and I got to take Watson all round the castle. It was even better when we found a small restaurant in the town which did all-day breakfasts with delicious bacon. And it was topped off when we received a telegram from Porthduilleyn that very afternoon. It read simply:

'Yes!'

Watson also got to see his old castle. It was wonderful being able to do good things for someone I lo..... liked so much.

I was in so much trouble!

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In fact, I was in more trouble than even I suspected. I was less than six months from very painfully finding out just how much.

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	4. Case 56: The Adventure Of The Artful Persuasion ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. Holmes plays on some prejudices involving a large, muscular man standing around without any clothes on, as he once again delves into matters of love and romance. So fortunate that Watson is not the jealous sort, is it not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of child abuse from an earlier case.

_[Narration by Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, Esquire]_

I was not yet twenty, but some days I just felt _old!_ Then again, when you've been kidnapped and used as a sex object at fifteen and only released after a year of torture, you grow up pretty damn quick I can tell you. 

I owe Mr. Sherlock Holmes for getting me out of the hell that was the Tankerville Club and for sending me and my fellow sufferers off to some place out in Essex where... seriously you can pay to go and do sod all? Still that suited us all fine, and they had some great doctors who didn't push, just waited for you to talk when you were good and ready. _And the food!_ We all arrived just skin and bones but there was as much as you could eat (though there were limits the first week; they said our bodies had to adjust which I suppose made sense), and it was kind of wonderful to watch us all healing together. I was one of the last three to come back to London and had been there for the best part of a year. I’d just turned eighteen then and Mr. Holmes had his cousin Mr. Garrick come fetch us. They had even set some of us up with Mr. Garrick's cousin Mr. Kerr who ran the best molly-houses in London. My life had gone from one extreme to the other, but it had all come right now.

It was kind of weird in that while I only worked at Mr. Kerr’s in my spare time, I made about as much money there as I did as a fruiterer, the ‘real’ job that Mr. Holmes got me. The fellow had thought of everything! He even got me a bank account which I never thought I'd have, but it was good to save towards when I could have a place of my own. And a family.

One of the things that surprised me about Mr. Kerr's houses was just how many married men 'worked' there. As I said the pay was brilliant, so I suppose their wives just turned a blind eye as they say. That might be a problem for me as I wanted a large family, but I thought I'd better spend a few years putting away some money.

Having pretty much abandoned me for the first part of my life, the Lord had other ideas – and was about to make things up for me big time!

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Most fellows remember the first time they met their future wife, and mine was more memorable than most. The famous Pearly Kings of the East End hadn't really started back then but a fellow called Mr. Henry Croft, who raised money for charity (he'd been an orphan and had worked as a street-cleaner) was wearing pearl buttons on his trousers, and that was spreading to the chief families of the area. One of those families was the Prynnes, related to but not descended from some fellow from the Civil War†. Mr. William Prynne was head of the family and related somehow to my boss at the fruiterer's Mr. Bates, so I saw him on occasion. I didn't think much of it until he and his daughter came into the shop one day – then it hit me!

Bertha. She was blonde, beautiful, and.... _stunning!_ So of course I stood there like a complete gibbering idiot until Mr. Bates had to push me out of the way, and Mr. Prynne he looked at me all suspicious like. But Bertha seemed to like me, which was all to the good.

The problem – problems? Huh, where to begin? First I was black, which made the idea of me marrying a white girl seem as unlikely as the Moon wandering off to orbit Mars. Like marries like, as they say, but the only black girl I’d ever looked at had spent nearly an hour lecturing me on how terrible the world was and I’d ended up totally depressed. Then there was Mr. Prynne, who very clearly distrusted me because…. well, I was black. I was sure – fairly sure – Bertha liked me but of course I wasn't allowed to talk to her. Romeo and Juliet we weren't, not by a long chalk. 

It was depressing.

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One of the boys who'd been with me at that club was a fellow called Alan Buxted, a likeable cove who was actually the oldest one of us there despite being just six years older than me. He'd really fallen on his feet as Mr. Kerr had taken a fancy to him despite his having thirteen years on him, and they now ran the place together. For all his goofy looks Alan was sharp, and he soon winkled out of me about Bertha. I was dead embarrassed of course, but Mr. Kerr he called me in and said that I should go round to see Mr. Holmes about it. I didn't really want to bother him but I did as I was told.

Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson were still at Cramer Street then as it was just before a whole load of troubles went down that they didn't deserve, what with all the good they did for folks. Mr. Holmes listened to what I had to say then asked a weird question, even for him.

“Are you _sure_ that this Mr. Prynne does not like you just because you are black, Benji?”

I may not have been the brightest button in the box but I knew that his friend Doctor Watson didn't like him using that name on me. He seemed to resent anyone else being a friend to his friend, and I wondered..... well, I wondered. I sometimes leered at Mr. Holmes – he had no looks yet he was attractive in a weird way – and it always made the doctor edgy for reasons I suspected but wasn’t sure of. Hmm.

“I'm sure, Mr. Holmes sir”, I said firmly. “Mr. Bates, he's a kindly soul and he told me that Mrs. Prynne had some trouble with a couple of black youths a few years back who lived near her house. Her husband holds it against us all, worse luck.”

“My first task must be to ascertain the lady's wishes in this”, Mr. Holmes said. “If she does return your feelings then it should be a simple matter to change her father’s mind.”

Sometimes I worried that all that brilliance might start sending Mr. Holmes round the bend. They say there's a thin line between greatness and madness.

“Change Mr. Prynne's mind?” I said dubiously. _”My_ Mr. Prynne?”

“Of course”, he smiled. “You, Drake and Steve still do that art course of an evening?”

I had to smile at his wording. The idea of the three of us doing an art course was a hoot – none of us would have known one end of a paint-brush from the other – but Mr. Holmes had arranged for us to pose for the artists there, some of whom.... well, they were no better than they ought to be. Drake had come out of the club with me; both he and Steve, a rough young docker who had just started at the molly-house over in the Minories, found it bizarre. It was almost as much money as I got at the house, for just standing there naked for hours on end. 

All right, I liked being admired. But then I had a lot to admire!

“Tomorrow is one of your days there, if I remember”, Mr. Holmes said, smiling in what I thought a knowing way for some reason.

“Yes, Steve and I both”, I said, wondering where he was going with this. We would be posing together; he was a short fellow who was pretty burly considering he wasn’t yet twenty, and we were I suppose a contrast as I was a lot bigger. In every department!

“I have an idea”, he smiled. “It is a tad unconventional but then the best ones often are. We shall just have to see.”

I could see by the annoyed look on Doctor Watson's face that Mr. Holmes would likely not be taking him into his confidence over this. So I threw in another leer, and there was a definite grinding of teeth from the medical gentleman in the room. Hmm again.

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I wondered if Mr. Holmes had planned something for my art class, but apart from one new lady who looked at me a bit oddly it went off all right. The following day it was back to the grindstone, though I enjoyed it really. Although less when Mr. Prynne came round and he scowled at me really bad for some reason. Bertha wasn't with him, worse luck. I wondered what I’d done to upset him.

The following day my luck turned when Bertha came to the shop on her own and asked if she might 'borrow' me for a few minutes. I was immediately wary; Mr. Bates had been ‘off’ ever since Mr. Prynne's visit the day before, and I knew that something was up.

“I've been thinking”, she said, sitting down with me. “I want a small wedding.”

I stared at her. Did that make sense or something?

“I'm sure your father would be all right with that”, I said carefully.

“And I want at least twelve children.”

I nearly fell over my chair as I tried to stand up too fast.

_”What?”_

“Do calm down, dear”, she said far too reasonably. “I spoke with your Mr. Kerr and he said that he was sure that he could find someone steady for you.”

I remembered something Mr. Holmes had once said about parallel universes. I seemed to have gotten into one without noticing. What the hell was happening?

“I don't understand”, I said feebly.

She sighed exasperatedly, then leaned forward.

“Benji”, she said.

I was surprised at her calling me that, but as she had only spoken softly I leaned forward to catch her words. Then suddenly she took my face in her hand and kissed me! 

Some time later and after I had floated down from the ceiling, I stared at her in complete bewilderment.

 _”Wha….?”_ I managed (I was quite proud to have gotten that much out).

“We're going to be married”, she smiled. “Father and Mother have given their consent, so we shall be man and wife before the end of the year.

I gasped in shock.

“But..... how?” I said. “Your father hates me!”

Too late, I realized I could have put that better. She smiled knowingly.

“Father will come round”, she said. “Mother made the decision after what happened the other night.”

“What was that?” I asked. She grinned knowingly.

“She attended a certain art class?”

Let me tell you, black men do blush. I went red right down to my toes!

“Your mother saw me.... naked?” I asked, horrified. She nodded.

“It was I admit more than a little traumatic when she came home and spent rather too long looking at a ruler that she dug out”, she said, somehow making me blush even more. “Your friend Mr. Holmes spoke to me and arranged it all.”

I grabbed the arms of my chair. This was all happening far too fast.

“Mr. Kerr?” I asked.

“I don't like the idea of you sleeping with lots of different men every night once we're married”, she said. “I want that made that quite clear. But he said that he is sure that he can find you what he calls a ‘regular’, one client who you can keep to. That, I can put up with.”

It had to be that parallel universe! One that made no sense at all!

“Besides”, she said, “one must be realistic. With a family as large as ours will be, we will need all the money that we can get!”

I decided that the best way to make sense of all this was to kiss her properly. Fortunately that worked quite well.

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The only very slight downside to the whole thing was that Mrs. Prynne, much to her husband's annoyance, signed up to a full twelve sessions of my art class and I had to spend the months around our wedding standing bare-arsed naked and being leered at by my future mother-in-law. And being teased by Steve and Drake who, bastards they they were, somehow found out! But otherwise things worked out perfectly, especially when barely a month later Mr. Kerr found the perfect fellow to set me up with on a permanent basis – someone I knew already.

Things really were looking up!

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_Notes:_   
_† An earlier Mr. William Prynne (1600-1669). A prolific writer who crossed King Charles the First repeatedly and twice paid for it, once having his ears cut off in the pillory and then having the stumps torn out for a second offence. Archbishop of Canterbury William Laud was behind that but Prynne got his revenge, fabricating evidence that secured the death penalty against his tormentor in 1645._

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	5. Case 57: The Adventure Of The Potent Potentate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. Watson finds himself having to deal with a handsome and sexually-supercharged gentleman in a grass skirt, and a certain consulting detective is absolutely not the least bit jealous of that fact. Absolutely not. No way.  
> Shut up!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It might be thought by the people who read of my adventures that someone in my position has an excellent grasp of human nature. However the one thing that I never fully understood – until it was almost too late, some might justifiably say – is that thing called love. Mankind knows of course that he is destined never to understand the fairer sex; there is much truth in the old saw that God promised Man that He would place biddable women in the four corners of the Earth and then proceeded to make the planet round (that is why they say to always read the terms and conditions), but I find even my fellow men difficult to understand. 

What makes understanding such things even more difficult is the way people see myself and Watson. My friend is a fine figure of a man – my stepbrother Campbell on more than one occasion mourned him as a loss to his profession and I always recall a minor case in a department store when one of the managers asked if he would consider modelling their night-clothes which made him blush pret..... manfully – yet for some reason when we were on our cases women would always turn their attentions on me. I did not understand it at all and I know that it vexed Watson more than he admitted. He was also not overly enamoured of the affable Benji who was often round for one reason or another, and he had not taken at all well to the affable Mr. Lowen Trevelyan, the fisherman that we had met on the Scilly Isles in the Adventure of the Repellent Philanthropist.

That latter was to prove ever so slightly unfortunate, as things turned out.

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It is often assumed, both by those ignorant of the facts and by those not ignorant but who wish to denigrate our Nation, that the British Empire was some sort of mighty steamroller which spread itself effortlessly over the world except for that very slight hiccough over the Thirteen Colonies and King George the Third managing to turn a regional drama into an international crisis. But towards the end of the century British thoughts were turning to the future especially with the rising powers of Italy and Prussian Germany on the block, and it was less the white man's burden and more 'do we actually _need_ to be in that far-flung place?'

Naturally it was the theatre furthest away from our islands, the wide and almost empty Pacific, in which that question was most often posed. Very little British trade passed across the largest ocean in the world, and with the small island groups each possessed of their own fierce native tribes a different solution to securing British influence was needed. It was initially found in a policy of mutual treaties in which London recognized the various tiny kingdoms as nation states and established protectorates over them in all but name. A few years back our Nation had established the British Western Pacific Territories, a super-protectorate that spanned much of that great ocean. This covered almost everything except for one still independent kingdom known as Strafford Island, which now became the focus of interest from Great Britain, the United States, France and Germany. This solitary island was some four miles across at its widest point but was also possessed of a large natural harbour and positioned about midway between the Hawaiian Islands (then increasingly in the American sphere of interest) and the Cook Islands (part of the new super-protectorate), so it was a great prize. That and copious supplies of fresh water meant that its kings were powerful men indeed for a state no larger than the distance between Regent's Park and the Tower.

Incidentally (and because Watson said that this sort of thing is what his readers find interesting) the name of the island came not from the most famous Earl of Strafford, Thomas Wentworth the ill-starred adviser to King Charles I who preceded his master to the block, but from one John Byng Earl of Strafford, nephew of the famous Admiral John Byng who had been most shamefully shot on board his own ship in 1757 after failing to relieve Minorca during the Seven Years' War. The new earl's ancestry fed back into the original Wentworths but not to the doomed Earl Thomas, and he had funded the exploration mission which had been the islanders' first contact with civilization hence their name. His name in turn came from a wapentake (a Northern division of a shire equivalent of the southern hundred) in the West Riding of Yorkshire called Strafforth & Tickhill, a heavily industrialised area which includes the towns of Sheffield, Doncaster, Conisbrough, Mexborough, Rotherham, Swinton, Thorne and Wath. In short an area about as unlike Strafford Island as could be imagined!

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I generally had little interest in politics but in this case not only did that world come to me, it also brought a rare (though not rare enough) involvement with my unpleasant eldest brother Mycroft. A man – I will not say gentleman for he was none - who had always made his disapproval of me quite clear, I had no contact with him and rejoiced in that fact, although I was as I have said aware that he was monitoring me and quite probably several other of our siblings in the hope of obtaining information that might disinherit those whom he thought unworthy of inheriting our father's money (i.e. everyone except him). 

One day in early December Watson was working at his surgery when my cousin Luke called at Cramer Street to let me know the latest developments with my 'new' half-brother Mr. Teledamus Newton. Luke had been especially grateful for my assisting his lover Mr. Anthony 'Tiny' Little (A Great Little Adventure) and from the slowness with which he sat down he had had Tiny's attentions quite recently. Indeed the horny bastard had insisted on telling me that the behemoth had been so grateful that he had actually consented to 'bat' for the first time ever, which was why Luke had to take a whole week off work recently.

I was sure that there was _some_ reason that I liked my cousin. Somewhere...

“This is a major case”, he said, “and Randall will be mightily annoyed that he was not allocated to it.”

“Why is that?” I asked. Our lounge-lizard of a brother had not been around much these past few weeks, and any extra coffees, bacon or barley-sugars that I may or may not have had had been entirely coincidental, as had any large bags of chocolate drops that Watson may or may not have consumed. 

Luke smiled wolfishly.

“One of his latest 'conquests' turned out to be the daughter of a Cabinet minister”, he grinned, “something that she 'forgot' to tell him until her father discovered them in bed together! Mr. Gladstone was _not_ happy I can tell you, and our unlovely relative has been dispatched to a government naval base in Morayshire up in the North of Scotland for a few months to cool his ardour. I may just have telegraphed him about missing out on all the fun.”

“I very much doubt that anything in the world of politics is ever 'fun'”, I said.

“It concerns the situation in the Pacific Ocean”, he explained. “The French and Americans have both been trying to cosy up to King Kaha'i of Strafford Island, who has recently sent his eldest son to London for talks.”

I looked shrewdly at my cousin. He nodded.

“That was another reason why I was chosen”, he admitted. “The boy Tane is said to 'swing both ways' to use the horrible modern term and is ostensibly just here on a goodwill visit. It is our intent however that he leaves not just a very happy prince but with a full treaty that will guarantee his nation's independence and force all our enemies – and supposed friends for that matter - to back off his island. His father has already said that he might accept associate membership of the Pacific Territory, and we want that pushed along before the Americans start eyeing his kingdom up in the same way that they are doing to Hawaii.”

“So what is the problem?” I asked.

“The problem is, I have gone and lost him!” he groaned. “He was meant to disembark when the ship arrived in London and we had everything arranged. Instead he got off at Plymouth where we presume – hope – that he took a train here.”

“Has he been to England before then?” I asked. “I would not expect a Pacific Islander to know his way around very well.”

“He has not but his cousin Akoni has”, Luke said, “and he had a full British education before returning home earlier this year. I wanted to call in on Campbell to see if he could help but I could not..”

“Why not?” I asked. He grinned.

“After Tiny walked me up and down the stairs this morning, I have only just been able to start walking again!”

I just shook my head at him. I had terrible relatives, even the ones that I liked!

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To spare my sex-maniac of a cousin I sent round to Campbell myself. As well as his own business my stepbrother had strong links to several of his female-oriented equivalent establishments, or as my brother Mycroft called them, 'places of sin and ill-repute that he would never visit', so the reports of him so doing were obviously in error all nine times. Sure enough my stepbrother did not disappoint; he came round himself that same evening rather than risk using a telegraph or letter, which I appreciated given the seriousness of the situation.

“Watson not back yet?” he asked as he sat down (almost as carefully as Luke had I noted; he had tried to tell me that that old saw about black men being more developed in certain areas was definitely true in Alan's case, but I had swiftly reminded him as to just how many ways I knew of committing murder and remaining undetected).

“He had a late client all the way out in Ruislip”, I said. “Presumably someone important, and hopefully someone who actually pays.”

He smiled knowingly at me.

“Shut up!” I grumbled.

“At least his terrible cousin has gone back to her homeland”, he grinned. “It was good to see that you were not the least bit jealous of her attentions to him.”

“I was too busy hiding from the harridan myself”, I deflected. “Did you find out anything?”

He allowed himself a smirk before answering. I did not wonder at the old saw that friends are the Good Lord's apology for relations; He had a whole lot of apologizing to do in my case!

“You were right about him swinging both ways”, he said. “He has been putting it about in a number of places, with men and women. None of my boys, unfortunately.”

“Why unfortunately?” I asked.

“Apparently he likes to wear a grass skirt”, Campbell grinned, “and reports are that he is very well endowed.”

“Alan will not like you looking at another man”, I pointed out.

“It only serves to make him jealous”, he grinned, “and we all know how jealousy affects some men, do we not?”

I glared at him. Watson and I..... well no. Just no!

“I have not met the fellow myself”, said a stepbrother whom I no longer liked one little bit, “but he must be a charming fellow for all he is but seventeen years of age. Although apparently he looks older.”

“Why must he be so charming?” I asked not at all irritably.

“Balin and Balan told me that he had persuaded a friend of theirs, Stuart, out of retirement”, Campbell explained. “He had a bad experience with a client and had decided to quit, especially as he recently turned forty, but the prince got him back beneath the sheets again and it was something to remember! The one piece of good news that I can bring you is that you will have him back tomorrow.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“He told Stuart that his good times were coming to an end as the ship he was on was due in then”, he said. “I suppose he will make his way to the docks and be there to meet his – what do you call them - handlers?”

I nodded.

“Luke will be relieved, then”, I said. “He was thinking that the whole visit might be a complete disaster.”

I was to remember those particular words.

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The following day Luke came round again – in very poor shape and listing slightly, so obviously Tiny had gotten those 'supplies' that I had sent – now with his Pacific Potentate in tow. Prince Tane was, I have to admit, one of the most handsome young gentlemen that I had ever seen, his tanned skin and hawk-like face setting off a muscular body that looked twenty-one rather than seventeen. He was dark-haired, of average height and wearing what was very obviously a bespoke suit. He was suffering from a slight cough and my cousin wished for Watson to examine him and give him the all-clear. Luke and I went out for a walk to give our visitor some privacy, and I was not the least bit anxious about leaving my friend with a sex-mad Adonis.

I was also beginning to understand what Watson meant about the ability of some people to do what he called 'a not-smirk', even if I had no idea to whom he had been alluding. Luke looked far too pleased with himself (although he said that that was mainly because Tiny had promised him another session later, the glutton for punishment!), and we arrived back to find Watson and the prince chatting affably and the latter sitting far too close to my friend. Did they not have the concept of personal space in Polynesia? It was annoying but at least he would be Luke's problem now.

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I had underestimated just how capable the Universe was of messing up my well-ordered life. The next morning Watson received a telegram.

“It is from your cousin Mr. Garrick”, he said, clearly surprised. “Apparently the prince wishes me to show him around London for his time here and it has been arranged for me to have paid time off from the surgery. That is very kind of him.”

I made a mental note to do something very bad to Luke at some point in the immediate future. The shop that I had ordered the 'supplies' from also did an Extra-Large Bumper Bag, which might well finish him off. Or I could always arrange for Mother to have him round for one of her readings, which was even more likely to finish him off. Maybe even both.....

“I suppose that one must make sacrifices for the Nation”, I said, thinking that sacrificing a certain cousin would be a good start. “It might be better than having to deal with some of your patients. At least you will be definitely getting paid.”

_(I had had to covertly intervene in Watson's life again recently as he had suffered a run of patients for whom paying the doctor's bill was a thing unknown. Fortunately my various contacts had been able to 'persuade' them that the time for payment was now, unless they wanted both lawyers and publicity in their lives)._

“That is true”, he conceded. “I had better get ready for my new role.”

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That evening Watson staggered back into our rooms and all but fell onto the sofa. I looked at him in surprise.

“I cannot do this!” he groaned. “Lord but the fellow is _insatiable!_ If it is human and adult he will want to have sex with it, and he can charm just about everyone. We visited Lord Frensham and he asked me to give his daughter a check-up while I was there – she is expecting – so he promptly disappeared off with two of his footmen! _Two of them!”_

I was I admit perhaps ever so slightly relieved that the Islander's charms had not been directed in at least one direction, and that my friend's exhaustion was from just trying to keep the fellow reined in. I had thought.... never mind what I had thought.

“There is chocolate cake this evening”, I said comfortingly. He looked at me in surprise.

“It is not Miss Hellingly's baking day”, he said. “That was two days ago when LeStrade and Gregson both came round.”

It really was unfair the way he made fun of our policeman friends just because neither of them had missed any of our landlady's last five baking days.... make that six. Wait, it was seven. No, eight.

Hmm, I supposed that he had a point.

“I purchased one on my way home”, I said. “Not as good as the ones made by our landlady, but it will serve. I thought that from what Luke had said about the prince, you might find his behaviour a trifle tiring.”

“And his wide Pacific Ocean might be a trifle damp”, he sighed. “Thank you, friend.”

At least he was smiling now, which was good. I liked his smile.

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The first week of the royal visit passed, and Watson contrived to look more and more frazzled at the end of each day. The one small upside, he told me, was that the prince was a strictly moral fellow in at least one aspect in that he refused to 'engage' with anyone who was married or even engaged. Although that came with a caveat which as matters transpired was to prove rather important; if he saw a husband or wife treating the other poorly then he would set his sights on 'helping' the victim. _Horizontally_ helping the victim. I did wonder slightly at his not targeting someone both unattached and as attractive as Watson, but I was just grateful that he was directing his attentions elsewhere.

There was a small reception at the current Earl of Strafford's house to honour the visit of an islander from where his cousin had brought the outside world to that part of Polynesia. Earl George was then in his late seventies and unfortunately ill, but his son and heir of the same name was hosting the event. I did not scowl when the prince had turned up at our house to collect Watson wearing a grass skirt.

“I thought that such clothing was found only on the Hawaiian Islands”, I said not at all frostily. 

He gave me a look that said he could see through me far too well. I decided that the sooner he was out of the country, the better.

“”We do indeed wear cloth skirts on our own island, sir”, he said, “but this is what people expect. I always try to give people what they want!”

I did not glare at him, and wished them both a pleasant evening, despite the way someone left far too close to my.... to Watson. Not that I was at all jealous, of course.

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Watson came back late and I was not waiting up anxiously for him when he did finally come through the door. I was however worried; he looked dreadful.

“Has something happened?” I asked.

He poured himself a large whisky and downed it in one go. Then he poured himself another.

“What an evening!” he groaned. “First one of the maids, then a footman, and just when I did not think it could get any worse he found another married woman whose husband had just been openly rude to her. They were gone for half an hour before they re-emerged; Lord alone knows how he has the energy!”

 _At least he was not using that energy on 'someone'_ , my brain put in unhelpfully. I told it to shut up.

“Which lady was the 'beneficiary' of his attentions this time?” I asked.

He looked strangely awkward for some reason. 

“A Mrs. Rachael Holmes”, he said at last.

_My sister-in-law? Mycroft's wife? Oh Lord!_

“Please tell me that he did not notice!” I said.

“It was when the gentlemen adjourned to the smoking-room”, he said to my immense relief, “and as the prince does not smoke he and I went outside. He somehow eluded me and must have then had his assignation with your sister-in-law. I hardly like to say it but I do not think that I have ever seen any lady look that smug.”

I could perhaps understand that. Mycroft was openly unfaithful to poor Rachael despite their having had five daughters, and I frankly wondered why she put up with him (indeed I quite expected to have his unexpected murder as a case one day which would have been terrible as I would never have been able to find the female culprit to whom I may or may not have been related). This was a most delicious revenge on her part, even if there might be a bit of explaining to do somewhere down the line. Likely about nine months down the line.

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The second week of the royal visit passed and Watson proceeded to lose his charge on only a further fourteen occasions (that he was aware of; he admitted there were likely more). Seriously, what did they feed these islanders that they had so much stamina? The prince also found his way to one of my stepbrother's molly-houses at one point, where Campbell told me he most definitely left an impression; not on him of course or it would have been Alan who would have ended up being tried for murder.

One particularly vexatious thing was that for some strange reason everyone seemed to like the fellow. Balin and Balan came round to Cramer Street with a note from Campbell and were fulsome in their praise for the fellow. Apparently lust, like love, can be blind; it was lucky that I was not the sort of person to be bitter over such things.

On the blessed and joyous day of the prince's departure I was feeling more than a little relieved, especially as Watson had finished his duties and was having a day spent mostly sleeping before he returned to being a city doctor. I dare say that he was almost missing his patients after his dreadful ordeal! 

Unfortunately my own ordeal was not yet over for the prince came to call on us to thank his guide.

“Do not wake the poor fellow”, he smiled showing a perfect set of teeth (all the better to eat you with, I thought, perhaps a little uncharitably). “I have put him through enough already, I am sure.”

There was something in his words that I did not like at all. I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Watson is a good friend”, I said frostily, “and deserves to be treated with respect.”

He smiled knowingly.

“I can assure you, sir”, he said silkily, “I gave him all the _respect_ that he deserved!”

I could not help myself; I stood up and glared at the fellow. And to my shock and surprise he just laughed at me.

“Campbell was right”, he said. “You _are_ in love with him.”

I stared at him, aghast.

“How can you say such a thing?” I demanded angrily.

“Because it is true.”

I opened my mouth to deny his accusation but he was faster.

“I have met many men in my time”, he said, “and it is in my experience our nature is that some of us will deny what we want simply because we are men. But you love him, and I know from when I bent over wearing my skirt and did not elicit so much as a look from the fellow that he loves you. One day you will accept this.”

“Men do not love each other in this country”, I said firmly. He smiled.

“One should never confuse love and lust”, he said. “I am taking a rather large souvenir of England back to my little island which will doubtless disappoint your cousin Mr. Garrick; his Mr. Little has graciously consented to join me there. He is the only gentlemen on whom I fixed my attentions who refused me because of the 'arrangement' he had with your cousin; such faithfulness is rare in this world and besides, he is prodigious in so many areas! I also have something for all the 'troubles' that I caused your 'friend'.”

He took a small box out of his pocket and opened it, then placed it on the table facing me. Inside was a large black pearl.

“I left one of these with each of those who made my time in England so pleasant”, he said. “They are native to my part of the world; common enough there but worth a number of your English pounds. I gave the larger ones to the ladies because as I am sure you can appreciate, some nine months from now they may have need of extra money. But I kept the largest of all for a true gentleman, one of only two people who resisted my poor charms. Because he is already in love.”

He nodded at me and crossed to the door, but paused before leaving.

“A true gentleman”, he said again. “Take care of him Mr. Holmes, for my sake and yours. Farewell. 

With that he left. I stared after him, shocked.

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Postscriptum: Some nine months later there were indeed a number of unexpected happy events across London. One of them resulted in my acquiring my second nephew (my sister Anna had given birth to her first son Brendon three months prior). Rachael insisted on naming the boy Tantalus 'because she liked Greek myths' (I had a strong suspicion that my mother suspected something of what had happened as she had approved the name, and prayed fervently that she did not feel 'inspired' to write a story about it). Mycroft of course was immensely proud of having sired his first son while I... I had my own problems by that time, as Watson and I were apart.

By over a thousand miles.

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	6. Interlude: Benji

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. Sad Face, Part Deux.

_[Narration by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire]_

Into every life, they say, a little rain must fall. Well, my damn basement was flooded and I was fed up!

It was bad enough having discovered the ticking time-bomb that was under Sherlock's poor friend Doctor Watson, but the recent visit of Prince Tane of Strafford Island – more than a few ladies might well have a bit of explaining to do nine months ahead, including possibly Sherlock's sister-in-law Rachael who had done unto her unpleasant husband Mycroft as he had so often (and sometimes even publicly) done unto her. Revenge truly is a dish best served horizontal, I suppose. Then to cap it all the prince had taken to Tiny, and his sad face when he had told me – damnation, I knew that he loved the villain! I had to do the decent thing, to tell him that he should go and be happy with someone who could make him as happy as he deserved.

I was more than a bit surprised when my cousin Campbell suggested my taking on another of his boys on a permanent basis like I had Tiny. Not that I was averse to such a thing; I craved stability but the fellow who he suggested was one Benjamin Jackson-Giles, who I knew had been one of the fellows rescued from the horrors of the Tankerville Club some three years back. I remembered him because he had been the youngest boy to come out of that place, then not yet sixteen. He was nineteen now and I knew an impressive figure of a man, but I had thought that with his recent engagement his future wife would want him to cut down on such 'extracurricular activities'. However Campbell explained that his future wife was prepared to accept him having one steady lover (for the money, of course) so he was sending him round to see if he was suitable.

All right, I was thirty-four years of age and taking on a horny teenager. But if I was going to burn in the eternal fires of hell then I might as well enjoy my brief time on earth first!

I cannot deny that the prospect of someone as tall and strong as Benji (as I had been told he liked to be called) did raise... expectations. I had had six years with Tiny and although I had not told anyone, that had been six years of almost solid batting. The huge fellow had pulled such a sad face the first time we met that I had been raising my legs before I had known what I was about. To be fair there had been that one time after Sherlock had helped Tiny out over his villainous father, after which he had again pulled the sad face but this time because he wanted to try batting. I had had to take whole week off work to recover, and with those glutes it had proven a damn sigh easier thereafter to just lie back and take it like a man. Well, those days were done!

There was a knock at the door and I took a deep breath. Here went everything!

“Enter!” I called.

Benji duly came in. He was at least six foot four so slightly taller than me and much more muscular, his ebony skin seemingly polished as it glowed in the afternoon sun that was shining through the window. He was wearing only a long dressing-gown and a smile.

“Mr. Campbell said you might want to try me out for keeps, sir”, he smiled shyly. “How do you like it, Mr. Lucifer?”

I opened my mouth to state the obvious, but.... Lord not again! He was looking at me with that same hopeful expression that Tiny had had off to a tee. Before I quite knew where I was I was throwing off the sheet and raising my legs. He grinned and eased off his dressing-gown,.

I looked down.

And down.

And down.

And down.

_I was toast!_

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Some time later Benji was sitting on the side of the bed with me still impaled on the Banjax. I was sure that my insides might forgive me. Eventually. Some day.

Then he shifted his position, and I fai.... dozed off.

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	7. Case 58: The Adventure Of The Hawke Inheritance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. Sometimes bad things happen to good people, but when they look set to keep happening, Holmes takes measures that involve one of the most powerful ladies in London who will play a major role in his life. He also meets another member of the Hawke family – much to his shock!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

John Hamish Watson is one of the most stolid men of my acquaintance. So it was a rare thing for him to be totally lost for words. But when I queried his notes from one of our cases in which he had referred to me as 'a modern-day Robin Hood', I had pointed out that I was not a thief of any sort. He had explained the analogy in that I gave justice to all regardless of their wealth, and I had countered by suggesting that next thing I knew the 'Strand' magazine would be picturing me in a short tunic and hose, with a huge weapon at my command. 

I do not know why that had made him cough so much. Everyone knows that the average longbow is as tall as a man, and a huge weapon indeed.

His point was perhaps an oddly-expressed one but he was correct in one aspect at least; I was determined to apply justice to all. Justice, not just the word of law. And in this case, I was to have an extra motive to effect that justice.

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Lawyers have an oftentimes deservedly poor reputation, but there are some (a small few) who consider things other than the size of their next fee. One such was Mr. Edward Pelligrew whom I knew through Stamford from my two years in Oxford. I had assisted him in a very small matter some years back since when we had remained in contact, and when he had asked to see me over 'a difficult matter' I had agreed at once. Considering how his profession often twists and turns the English language in court, it was to prove a case of massive understatement on his part.

Mr. Pelligrew was in his mid-thirties at this time, a cadaverous blond fellow with a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles which seemed to serve little purpose as he was always looking over them. He was clearly nervous for some reason so I invited him in and bade him sit down. He did so and stared at us both for at least a minute in silence.

“This is difficult”, he said at last.

“You said that in your letter”, I said patiently. “How 'difficult'? Has a crime been committed in some way?”

“No”, he said to my surprise. “At least, not yet.”

I looked at him curiously.

“But you are afraid that something _might_ happen”, I reasoned. “Something quite serious, otherwise you would have employed the official channels to be on the safe side should the matter ever come to court, rather than having risked coming to me.”

He nodded.

“My father recently acquired a place for me at Hammond, Griffin & Roade”, he said carefully.

I did not think that I reacted the way I wanted to, but Watson looked across at me sharply. He really was knowing me too well of late.

“The late Lord Tobias Hawke's lawyers?” I inquired coldly. That company had, I remembered, been less than helpful following the tragic death of the young nobleman who had made such an impression on the seven-year-old Sherlock Holmes, and his successor Lord Theobald (or at least his guardian and brother-in-law Mr. Henry Buckingham) had understandably and wisely sought legal counsel elsewhere. 

Our visitor clearly picked up on my annoyance and hurried on.

“Yes”, he said, now suddenly fascinated by the floor. “Yes. It does concern..... him.”

“What is it that you want, sir?” I said more than a little brusquely. Watson looked surprised at my tone and Mr. Pelligrew looked pained.

“It is difficult to explain”, the lawyer said evasively. “Have you met Lord Theobald at all?”

“I have not”, I said, “although I learned recently of his sad affliction. He and I tend to move in rather different social circles as I am sure you are well aware. I did hear that he had broken off his engagement though I do not know who it had been to.”

I looked expectantly at Watson. I was not going to comment on his fondness for the social pages but then I did not have to. He pouted anyway.

“A lady called Miss Gabriella Dixon”, he said. “The granddaughter of the late Lord Heversham who sat in the House of Lords. The newspapers have speculated that they only became engaged to please him as he was dying, and it rather looks as if they were right.”

“I do not think that that is part of the problem”, Mr. Pelligrew said. “More serious is that with Lord Theobald not having or not being likely to have any children, there is the problem of who would inherit the title.”

“Who is that?” I asked.

An interesting observation; even those in the legal profession find it hard not to hesitate before framing a lie. Or even a half-truth.

“His nephew Mr. Harry Buckingham, his former guardian's elder son”, Mr. Pelligrew said. “As you probably know Lord Theobald is considerably younger than either of his half-sisters. Harry, I suppose his half-nephew, is twenty now; I believe that his birth may have been a difficult one because his parents had no more children and later adopted a distant cousin of the Hawke family who, by coincidence, was named Henry. He is less than a year younger than his brother; unusually for siblings they get on most excellently.”

I could hardly disagree with him over his observations on the standard brother relationship but I still worried about that pause, and the feeling that he was not being wholly truthful with me.

“Are either of those young gentlemen married yet?” I inquired.

“Henry married late last year”, our visitor said. “Harry was until recently associated in the newspapers with Miss Elizabeth Dunn, daughter of the Conservative politician of that name, but it seems that they were indeed just good friends.”

“Her father is the one the 'Times' calls 'Never Dunn Talking'”, Watson snarked. 

He really was terrible at times. I smiled, but I was still wondering just how truthful our visitor was being with me. I knew that the Hawke's family seat of Brunton Hall was in Wiltshire, somewhere between Salisbury and Marlborough. A test, perhaps.

“Would you require me to go down to Wiltshire at all?” I asked casually. 

“I would hope to spare you the trouble”, he said. 

That time his reaction had been a little _too_ quick. There was more to this matter than he was saying but I would have to be careful in finding out what that was if only for the memory of poor Lord Tobias. I thought of our Mr. Billingsley from a few years back; he had recently married and his wife was expecting their first child, so at least he was happy enough. Yet now the Hawke family was in trouble again.

They deserved better. I would make sure that they got it.

“So what is the problem with this Mr. Harry Buckingham?” I asked.

“Character-wise he is a fine fellow”, Mr. Pelligrew said. “Despite not being a Hawke by name he is very much the image of his great-grandfather Lord Alexander, whom Lord Tobias also took after. Alexander's sister Charlotte married a Mr. George Buckingham, Harry's great-grandfather, so he does have Hawke blood in his veins. You know how sometimes fine looks elicit jealousy from those around them but I have not found anyone with a bad word to say about the fellow.”

Because the Hawkes had links to my own family in the form of the late Lord Sheridan I did actually know of the latter's father Lord Alexander, a supremely vain fellow whose massive portrait had been 'gifted' to the National Gallery where I had seen it one time. I remember suspecting that it had been a rather unwelcome 'gift' and unfortunately not one that the recipient could take back and exchange for something – anything - better. Although I doubted that short of putting it into storage they could have found a darker room in which to display the monstrosity which one newspaper had quipped was almost as large as its subject's ego. Lord Alexander could well have ruined the Hawke estate through his fecklessness but he had died after a tenure of only three years (1828-1831).

“Go on”, I said.

“As you may imagine, Lord Theobald's declining state of health has focussed his mind on the succession”, my visitor said. “A clause in the estate rules states that anyone who inherits has to be of the Protestant Faith. His half-nephew and heir presumptive has recently made the acquaintance of a Jesuit priest, a Father Humilis, who I believe seeks to convert him.”

“He would give up the Hawke estate for religion?” Watson asked, clearly surprised.

“He is a most earnest young gentleman”, Mr. Pelligrew said. “And he will inherit his father Mr. Henry Buckingham's business one day which would be more than enough for his needs; that gentleman's stewardship after Lord Tobias's sad passing was most excellent. If the boy converted _before_ a marriage then any children would be debarred; if after it would instead depend on what religion they were raised as.”

“So to the obvious question”, I said. _”Cui bono?_ Who is next in line after Mr. Harry Buckingham?”

“That is where it gets even more difficult”, Mr. Pelligrew sighed. “The Hawke estate cannot pass to an adopted son so his brother is debarred although from what I hear he is quite all right with that; he has some small funds of his own from his natural father and I am absolutely sure his brother would support him if needed. The title cannot pass to a lady – Lady Jane, the mistress of King Charles the Second who created the title for her father, was an exception by royal grant - but it can go through the female line. Mr. Harry's aunt Elizabeth, Lord Theobald's other sister, made an ill-starred match to a Mr. Simeon Hebburn, a most unpleasant fellow who actually struck her, would you believe it? I cannot understand how it got as far as the altar myself but it was dissolved within a threemonth. Some little time after she married a much more respectable gentleman called Mr. Kevin Winteringham, a businessman from County Durham. They have four children; a boy William who is twelve, a girl named after her mother who is ten and the twins Catherine and Nigel who are six.”

I wondered at that.

“Did the family oppose the first union?” I asked.

“Very strongly”, he said. “The girl saw through the villain once they had been wed so all was well in the end. Unfortunately he is still around and he has recently tried to claim that the marriage was never formally dissolved. Utter hogwash of course, but if it were true it would invalidate the claims of the four children.”

“Has the family tried to pay him off?” I asked.

“No, unusually for this day and age”, he said. “Both Lord Theobald and Mr. Henry Buckingham are adamant over that. In the unlikely event that such a claim stood up in court the next in line would be the late Lord Sheridan's only surviving brother Lord David. He is nearly sixty and in poor health but he does have four sons of his own to continue the lineage, and of course they are all Hawkes. However his eldest son Hugh is a _very_ moral gentleman and I cannot see him being involved in anything even remotely questionable. Although I had wondered if his father was behind this turbulent priest business as some of his own business transactions have been.... interesting.”

 _Borderline illegal but cannot yet be proven as such_ , I translated. Watson was as ever a bad influence on me.

“The last turbulent priest was poor Thomas Becket†”, I said. “Let us hope that this matter ends rather less bloodily!”

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Since this was one time of many that the Hawke family was to play a role in my life I shall take Watson's advice and provide some background information on them‡. They could trace their roots back to a gentleman called Eadwulf, an alderman under the famous King Athelstan who created England in the tenth century, but the first recorded surname does not appear until the thirteenth in the Lincolnshire rolls. The family was Northern-based for some centuries but in 1620 one Ichabod Hawke moved to Wiltshire where he became a devout Puritan. He named his first two sons Tenacious and Freewill (one presumes that he had reasons other than the standard one to mortify them for their first two decades of existence), but with the sort of inevitability that these things have the younger son rebelled and, on joining the Royalist side in the English Civil War, changed his name to Petronius. His mother's preference apparently; to me it does not seem that much better than Freewill!

Ichabod and Tenacious Hawke both died during the Siege of Bristol in 1645, and with no parliamentarian heirs the family estates were seized by parliament. Petronius Hawke was then one of the few Protestant gentlemen to assist in the flight of the future King Charles the Second after the disastrous Battle of Worcester in 1651. The royal tie was strengthened when Petronius's daughter Jane became one of the Merry Monarch's many mistresses after the Restoration and her father was created first Lord Hawke in 1672. Indeed until the unhappy events surrounding poor Lord Tobias whom I had so admired the only real scandal of any note had as I said been Lord Harry Hawke the Second's daughter Charlotte marrying one Mr. George Buckingham; as that great authoress Miss Jane Austen said, marrying _trade?_

It is a good thing that a certain friend of mine _hardly ever_ reads the social pages of the newspapers and was able to provide me with so much of the above information, is it not?

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As well as the Hawkes, this case is where I shall introduce another character without whom my life would have been both very different and so much harder. One thing that a consulting detective needs to do his job well is often rapid access to information, and I was fortunate that one of my small cases last year had been a service for a Miss Clementine St. Leger who had then just become secretary to Mr. William Swordland. A lady of not yet twenty years of age, she was a fiery red-head and of the sort of build that might even give the likes of my brother Randall pause for thought before trying anything (as it turned out he _was_ that stupid, but at least she set him a card when he was in hospital). That someone as reclusive as her new employer who was head of the information agency that bore his name was surprising, but then I had seen before that some of the older generation preferred frankness to obsequiousness, and Mr, Swordland was someone I most definitely wished to have a connection with. He had gained a reputation for knowing just about everything on just about everyone (it was said that if a sparrow fell off a tree in Whitechapel, within the hour he would know the manufacturers of the catapult used by the boy responsible, the number of feathers lost in the impact and what the boy had had for dinner the evening before). If what I suspected from my knowledge of the Hawke family was true then this case would require very careful handling and a full knowledge of _all_ the facts beforehand.

_(Watson had met Miss St. Leger one time and had subsequently remarked that that had been the first time that a lady had not simpered at me. I had pointed out that all four of the secretaries in the outer office had done precisely that and he had done another of his glorious pouts. I was so bad to tease him like that but I had not been able to resist; I had however then taken him to his favourite restaurant in Trafalgar Square afterwards where he had definitely not had that third chocolate éclair. It had just sort of disappeared on its own!)_

Miss St. Leger received us cordially and, as I had expected (and hoped) had coffee and cakes at hand. I definitely caught an eye-roll from a certain medical acquaintance of mine as I may have had a second cup of coffee before starting; it was definitely not a third one as someone later claimed. I explained the situation as regarded the Hawkes and she nodded.

“A most shocking injustice”, she said, reaching for the inevitable jam cream finger. “It was fortunate that you and the doctor here were able to assist Mr Billingsley in his related problem. Indeed, it is rather timely that you called today of all days.”

“How so?” I asked politely. She smiled.

“Nothing bad”, she said reassuringly. “Quite the reverse in fact. We received news two weeks ago that a certain person who had retired to a monastery on a small Cornish island had passed. Given that villain's track record of dying and not dying we had to have it checked out, but it was confirmed two days ago. I did not immediately let you know as we had instituted a further check which has not yet come through; better safe than sorry as Mr. Swordland always says.”

I was immensely relieved at that at least, even if I supposed that Satan deserved a mild condolence having to host Mr. Milton Carew for the rest of eternity.

“It is like this, madam”, I said. “I can see two likely explanations for what is happening down in Wiltshire at this time. The first I do not like much but I feel that it would be resolvable with care. The second is much more serious, especially given Lord Theobald Hawke's state of health just now.”

“Let us go with the obvious question”, she said. “Why do you not go to the Bourne Valley yourself?”

“Because if the second of those hypotheses is correct”, I said, “and regretfully it is the one that I incline towards, I fear that my presence might be the end of poor Lord Theobald. The man has suffered enough of late in my opinion.”

Watson looked sharply at me. I was sure that neither I nor Miss St. Leger had given anything away, yet he had spotted something amiss. 

“Yes, I see your point”, she said smoothly. “We are primarily a metropolitan organization but I have several gentlemen – and ladies - who are prepared to travel to the provinces. I shall dispatch one there tomorrow to make inquiries. You had better come here when I have something; I hardly think what I may have to communicate is fit for a telegram.”

“Thank you”, I smiled.

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I had no doubts that Miss St. Leger would come through for me in this, and she duly did. We went to her office to hear the precise details, which as I had feared did not improve the situation one iota. What a(nother) mess!

“What will you do?” she asked. 

“The first thing is to deal with this so-called priest”, I said. “Is he really in holy orders?”

“Not really”, she said. “He was thrown out of the Catholic Church for stealing, so set up his own church. As such he can claim to be a priest in much the same way that any man could, although I doubt that he has revealed such legal _legerdemain_ to his victim. One can achieve almost as much by not telling the whole truth as by actually lying.”

“I would like to see young Mr. Harry Buckingham without poor Lord Theobald being made aware of it”, I said. “Would you know how I might manage that?”

She nodded.

“He visits the priest at a small Catholic church in Marlborough from time to time”, she said. She passed over a small card to me. “You may also find it useful to take this gentleman with you when you go.”

I read the name on the card – 'Mr. William Clifford' - and smiled.

“Thank you”, I said.

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Normally one would have taken the Great Western to Reading and then on to Savernake Junction for the branch to Marlborough. However we remained on Brunel's masterpiece as far as Swindon, again enjoying the comfort of the fast-disappearing broad-gauge. Watson was surprised at my choice of route but I explained that we were meeting a gentleman in that town whose help was required in the case.

We reached the home of the Great Western Railway's famous works and found Mr. William Clifford waiting for us at the station. He was a fine old gentleman in his sixties, getting on in years and perhaps not in the best of health but clearly determined to help us in any way that he could. Given the nature of one of the crimes involved I could understand that.

The Midland & South Western Junction Railway which would one day pass right by the Hawke family's ancestral home had then completed its northern section from Swindon to Marlborough but unluckily the Great Western, annoyed at an intruder into what it regarded as its territory, had thus far prevented them from actually running any trains. So we had a pleasant carriage ride of some ten miles across northern Wiltshire until we reached Marlborough. The town lay on the Great West Road but the late arrival of the Great Western Railway's (broad-gauge) branch from Savernake Junction had left it feeling a little in the past, its broad High Street and ancient buildings looking as if they had not caught up with the late nineteenth century. 

We called in briefly at the police-station then headed for a small Catholic church in a side-street not far from the end of the High Street. The three of us entered a dimly-lit building. A priest was reading from behind a lectern at the far end and a single worshipper with a capon over his head was sat quietly in the first row not far from him. I heard a gasp from the gentleman beside me.

_“Darling?”_

It may have seemed an odd thing for him to say, but the effect on the priest was electric. He stared at us both in horror.

“Boss! I mean....”

I grinned. At that moment a second priest, white-haired and elderly, emerged from a side-room.

“What is going on?” he asked plaintively before gasping as he too recognized the gentleman standing next to me. Well he might as it was his superior, the Bishop of Clifton.

_“Your Grace?”_

“What the blazes are you doing, allowing a defrocked priest into this holy place?” the bishop demanded of the newcomer. The fellow's face turned even paler.

 _“Defrocked?”_ he gasped.

“I did it myself!” the bishop said hotly. “Stealing from the poor box was only one of his many crimes; I had thought the Holy Mother Church to be well rid of the pest. Now he is here!”

“Well I.... oof!”

The elderly priest gasped as the accused man surged forward, nearly knocking him over, and sprinted for the side-door.

“After him!” the bishop urged.

“Do not worry”, I reassured him. “That was why we stopped at the police-station before coming here. They have men outside both the exits.”

I was feeling pleased with myself at having exposed a criminal in this way so what happened next came as a terrible if perhaps deserved jolt to my pride. The single worshipper stood up and removed his capon then turned to face us. He was as I had guessed Mr. Harry Buckingham but.... oh Lord! That was impossible!

I could not help but let out a gasp. He was the living image of the late Lord Tobias Hawke!

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The county police had done their job and the cells at Marlborough's police station now had an extra occupant.

“What I would like to know”, Mr. Buckingham said later as we sat over coffee at a small restaurant just past the main church, “is _why_ he did it.”

I was having hard work to hide my feelings at this point. It was like I was this boisterous seven-year-old once more and this beautiful Greek god of a man was sat opposite me, even if the Adonis earning admiring looks from all around was eight years younger than me, not twelve years older. I remembered what had happened to poor Lord Tobias whose age this fellow almost exactly matched, so soon after this scene had played out all those years ago in my mother's kitchen. I shuddered despite the warm day and Watson looked at me anxiously.

“I am afraid that I must reveal a familial scandal to you”, I said. “It concerns your aunt Elizabeth.”

“She is a good lady”, Mr. Buckingham said hotly.

“But one determined to have her own way”, I said, “whatever the price. When she met a man whom she knew her family would not accept, she acted with great cunning. He disguised himself and she introduced him to them as an uncouth fellow called Mr. Simeon Hebburn; as she had expected they rejected him outright. After an elopement and a short-lived marriage she conceded that they had been right all along and agreed to leave him, then almost immediately married a much more agreeable fellow called Mr. Kevin Winteringham.”

“I know all this already”, the young man said warily.

“What you do not know is that Mr. Simeon Hebburn and Mr. Kevin Winteringham are in fact one and the same person”, I said. “Winteringham is his real name; the sole purpose of 'Mr. Hebburn' was to enable him to marry your aunt as the lesser of two evils. But he aimed still higher. He had learned that if you converted to another faith before you married then you would lose your inheritance and disinherit any children you may have later had, leaving his own wife to be next in line; indeed that was the main reason for his suit of your aunt. Although I do not like to say it, I do not believe that she would have lived long to enjoy her husband's ill-gotten gains, especially with children for whom he could act as guardian.”

“The blackguard!” the young fellow said fiercely.

“Indeed”, I said. “He also took the precaution of threatening the reappearance of the imaginary first husband to further divert any suspicion that may have arisen. I have a request to make of you, young sir.”

_(It seemed so odd calling him that because part of me was still that seven-year-old hero-worshipping the image of this gentleman across our kitchen table, while as I said I was talking to a fellow younger than me)._

“Of course”, he said.

“I would like to be the one to break this to Lord Theobald”, I said. “I have all the official documents which I would be able to show to him beforehand, so as to soften the blow. I think that it would be much better that way.”

“I know how much my dear uncle feels about family”, the boy smiled. “Yes, that would be fine, and thank you for al you have done for us, sir.”

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Bishop William wished to spend a night in the town so we took our carriage on to Collingbourne Kingston and Brunton House. The Bourne Valley was a beautiful and peaceful area, and I envied the family who lived here, even with the troubles that seemed to have beset them. We were duly admitted and I was able to explain matters to Lord Theobald Hawke well enough. Although I knew that he was just two years older than his nephew whom we had just parted from, he looked at least twice his age.

The nobleman looked at me sharply.

“I am to take it”, he said slowly and with a visible effort, “that if you have found out one thing about my family's recent history sir, then you have found out two?”

“The minute I saw Mr. Buckingham, I knew exactly who his father was”, I said. “I was blessed to meet him one time myself, when he was as old as Harry is now. It must have been a shock, your brother leaving you such an unexpected legacy.”

Watson looked at me in surprise.

“What?” he said. The nobleman sighed.

“Poor Toby went to pieces after that harlot left him”, he said. “He... as they say it only takes one time.”

He took a deep breath before continuing.

“You know that my father, Lord Sheridan, resigned the title when Toby of age”, he said. “He was never one for running things but when Toby died, he had to come out of retirement for a while even if it was my wonderful brother-in-law Henry who did all the real work; I owe him so much. He was with me when the storm broke and we had a visit from a Mrs. Jane Fritham. Her sister Sarah had slept with Toby and was pregnant with his child.”

“Your grandfather was certain that the boy was his blood?” I asked carefully. He looked at me and sighed.

“Sarah Plaitford was a novice nun!” he said. “And Toby was always the religious sort. She died giving birth to the boy, so Henry and my grandfather determined that he should succeed to the title as Toby's blood. Mary had been warned against having children and as for Elizabeth having any role in things – I do not know which was worse, her air-headed self or that slimy husband of hers!”

“Henry and I arranged for him to go abroad with Mary and they returned with Harry as their own child. The only servants who knew were all devoted to poor Toby, and my grandfather made sure that they were all right. It all seemed to be working out so well with Harry set to inherit despite all – until he went and grew up into the image of his real father!”

“Were there no paintings of Lord Tobias?” Watson asked.

“My grandfather put them all into storage”, the nobleman said. “I had them moved later; I could not risk Harry seeing them and making the connection. I told everyone that he took after my grandfather, which was partly true.”

He looked at us appealingly. 

“I know that my broken body can never have issue so Harry is all I have left, sirs. He is such a bright young thing, like his father in both body and spirit, but I feared with all this – a shock broke my brother, gentlemen, and I could not carry on if another broke his only son.”

“You have my solemn word that we will never tell him this”, I said firmly. “I know that they say truth will out but he deserves every effort being made on his behalf so he can become what his father – as you say, his real father – could and by all rights should have been.”

“For that you have my eternal thanks”, the nobleman smiled.

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“It is all rather sad”, Watson said as we stood at Savernake Junction, waiting for our train back to London. The skies were dark with a heavy grey cloud that was threatening snow, and I was looking forward to getting on our train home. “Such a beautiful young man yet the Fates are so cruel to him.”

“Beauty comes in many forms”, I said, perhaps a little sententiously. “But from our brief conversation I have to agree that he is pleasant enough. Like his real father, it is rare that the beauty within matches the beauty without. You thought him beautiful?”

He blushed fiercely. I just knew that he was silently calculating how many of what he called 'Man Points' he had lost by using that dreadful word.

“In the Classical way”, he said defensively. “Like one of those Greek statues come to life, although they are but cold marble.”

“It is a little known fact that the Ancient Greeks actually painted their statues so as to make them more lifelike”, I said. “Only Victorian morality means we have to have them grey and lifeless so that people will be less shocked by a naked man in the room.”

“He is not unlike Mr. Billingsley in appearance”, he mused. “Strange, as they are not actually related.”

“Beauty can only take one so far”, I said. “It is as they say so often in the eye of the beholder.”

“Whereas you of course are beautiful within”, he said casually.

I just looked at him.

And looked at him.

And looked at him.

“ThanktheLordthatisourtrain!” he said, perhaps a shade too fervently as a distant wisp of smoke appeared on the horizon. “I need to use the facilities before we go.”

He all but fled into the Gentlemen's toilets. I stared after him curiously.

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Postscriptum: Mr. Winteringham _alias_ Mr. Hebburn fled the country when his dark schemes were exposed and had the good grace never to show his face in England ever again. His abandoned wife was mortified at this and also left for parts distant; I doubt that she was missed by anyone much. I do not know what happened to 'Father Humilis' who after a spell in gaol was last reported to have gone to London (hopefully the bottom of the Thames if there was any justice).

I had not seen the last of Mr. Harry Buckingham for he would reappear in several further adventures of ours as I strove to keep from him the sad truth about his past. It would be over three decades before we would return to Wiltshire for what would be our penultimate case ever – when I would seek to destroy the marriage of the then Lord Harry's son, another Lord Tobias! But long before that, within three months in fact, I would discover that keeping secrets was a lot easier said than done. Which discovery would cost me the friendship of the one man who I valued above all others in this world. John Hamish Watson.

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_Notes:_  
_† Not as so many history books call him Thomas à Becket. Chancellor to King Henry the Second (ruled 1154-1189), that generally clever monarch unwisely made him Archbishop of Canterbury in an effort to spur church reform, only for his former friend to block his efforts. Matters worsened steadily until Christmas 1170 when an irate king yelled at his court that none of them would rid him of this turbulent priest. Unfortunately four of them took him at his word, crossed to England and murdered the archbishop in his own cathedral! Henry had to do penance and only narrowly survived an attempt by his sons and other enemies to depose him._  
_‡ A fuller history of the Hawke/Buckingham family can be found in Appendix 3._

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	8. Case 59: The Adventure Of The Infelicitous Interview ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. The calm before the storm, as Holmes has to help Sergeant LeStrade with a difficult family problem (and boy, does he know about difficult families!). A seemingly guilty young man and an unusable alibi present a tricky problem, and the solution is both a scarring and a bruising one.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It was a strange coincidence that although I had known Miss Clementine St. Leger for less than a year by this time, it was only after that I had introduced her to Watson that we had need of her services twice in short order. In this second and most unusual case it was not just 'who done it' as some terrible authors are wont to say these days (especially those of a medical persuasion!) but 'what was actually done' - and why.

Although my life was set to be somewhat turbulent over the coming years to say the least, there were some future problems that I had already pencilled into my diary which I knew would test me. One still lay over half a decade ahead but was beginning to loom ever larger, namely that my two cake-loving policeman friends would, miracles apart, both be applying for promotion to inspector in five to six years' time. Unless the Good Lord very generously contrived to make two of the current people at that rank step down or get promoted at exactly the same time, they would both go for it and each would expect my support. It would not be pretty and the remark of a certain unfunny hazel-eyed someone that it would be a 'cakewalk' was just _annoying!_

Unfortunately the Metropolitan Police Service is like so many large organizations in that the larger it gets the more it seems to attract characters the likes of my brother Randall, who would happily stab someone in the front and back if it got him what he _knows_ is his as of right. Of my two policeman friends I suspected that LeStrade might be the one more likely to run into difficulties with that sort of person, especially as his overt commonness irked several of his so-called superiors. Then again they disliked Gregson for being too much like them, so it was six of one and half a dozen of the other, really.

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It was the day after Watson's thirty-first birthday and we were having a week of chocolate-themed desserts and treats to mark the occasion, when LeStrade arrived looking even more morose than usual. I knew at once that this was an emergency; Miss Hellingly's baking day was not until tomorrow. I glared at Watson for making me think like that, and the villain just looked bemused for some reason. Harrumph!

LeStrade had brought along his second-born son Gereint who I knew was just coming up to his eighteenth birthday. That gave me an inkling of a possible reason for this visit – Watson would have a field-day over the timing although I would wager half a crown on our friend coming back tomorrow 'just in case there had been any developments' in what he was about to involve me in. 

I could see from their slight smile that 'someone' was having much the same thoughts, damn the fellow! I sent him a fully merited scowl. I _hated_ it when people smirked too much!

Master Gereint LeStrade was nothing like his father, being spindly to the point of having been able to pass as a playing-card if he had suddenly turned sideways. He was however an excellent athlete, and had I knew won several trophies and cups at the school where he was in his last year. He had also inherited his father's sharpness, which was good. 

“I am to take it that the interview did not go well?” I asked.

The young fellow had applied to follow his father into the Metropolitan Police Service, and I had confidently expected that he would get in (I know that with some families there was 'influence' from those already in the force but I was sure that LeStrade would never have done that on principle). The young man was already in the Cadets so his acceptance should have been a formality, especially given the way in which the service had like the capital been expanding in recent years. 

Although judging from his father's expression it may not have been.

“They rejected him!” LeStrade said curtly. “No reason, just.... we do not have any vacancies for you'.”

That was a blatant lie, I knew. There was clearly a lot more to this than met the eye. I turned to the young fellow.

“Did anything happen at the interview that seemed odd, sir?” I asked.

The boy nodded and looked nervously at his father.

“Speak up, Rin!” our friend snapped.

“The big lady in the dress that looked like a circus-tent kept glaring at me all the time”, the boy said, so quietly that I could barely hear him. “The bald toff with the monocle, he looked at me odd as well.”

I looked at his father for elucidation.

“That would be Lady McGovern and Mr. Gunton, sir”, he said. “Don't know much about either beyond their both being on the Board, I’m afraid sir.”

“That is all right”, I smiled. “I have Watson, who hardly ever glances at the social pages of the newspapers except when he just happens to pass one that just happens to be open at the right page.”

Master Gereint looked in surprise at his father, who seemed to be trying to hold back a laugh. I allowed myself a smile; my friend pouted at me most adorably and duly proceeded to prove me all too right.

“Mr. Powell Gunton is a rich merchant who trades out of the docks”, he said loftily. “Very upright and proper; his nickname is Pious Powell. He is also a thoroughly decent human being; his wife lost her hair through an illness and he shaved his own head off in sympathy with her. I believe that he and Lord McGovern have several common interests although the latter is rarely in London these days, preferring the peace and quiet of his Morayshire estate.”

“What sort of character is Lady McGovern?” I asked.

“I am surprised Lady Sarah McGovern stopped looking down her nose long enough to glare at Master Gereint here!” he scoffed. “One society magazine recently described her as 'so far up herself she was coming out the other side'!”

“I thought you told me that you never read those sort of magazines?” I asked innocently.

He flushed bright red, and pouted even more. It was frankly ado.... charming.

“Can you help the boy?” he asked, clearly eager to change the subject. Our two visitors were now both smiling, which was clearly adding to his discomfiture.

“Maybe”, I said. “I think that I shall call on this 'Pious Powell' and see if he is able to throw any light on the matter. There is obviously something strange behind the Service rejecting someone so eminently capable, let alone with such an obviously false excuse. I shall also call on Miss St. Leger; there is an angle on this over which her assistance would be useful.”

“I am surprised that I have never come across her before”, Watson said. 

“Perhaps you were too busy reading all those society magazines?” I teased.

He glared at me, and pouted even more. Both our visitors seemed to have acquired a cough from somewhere. Very suddenly!

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The following day I went via Swordland's where I dropped off my request for information, then on to Mr. Gunton's offices. They were surprisingly small for someone so rich but they were very well kept. The businessman greeted me and asked the reason for my visit.

“I wish to ask you about something in confidence”, I began, “and I will not of course divulge anything you tell me outside this room.”

This, annoyingly, was why I had been unable to bring Watson with me for once. But I had purchased him a large bag of chocolate buttons in return for my teasing him the night before. I say a large bag; it had also been an empty one when I had looked before leaving Cramer Street! And he had blushed when I had looked pointedly at him, most pretti.....

I was in so much trouble!

“Say on”, Mr. Gunton said, mercifully unaware of my inner angst.

“It concerns the Police Board's rejection of one Master Gereint LeStrade”, I said. “I can see no good reason for that decision, which regretfully inclines me to think that there may have been a bad one. I have a hypothesis about what may have happened and have set certain inquiries in train as a result, but I would like you to help me as much as you are able. Why did Lady McGovern hate the young man?”

The businessman baulked.

“How did you know that?” he asked.

“She persuaded the rest of the Board to reject the boy”, I said. “She must have had help or at least support, considering the number of people involved and her own rather unpleasant character. How was it done?”

Mr. Gunton sighed.

“She had reason, I am sorry to say”, he said. “I should know; I was there when it all happened.”

“Go on”, I said.

“I knew that she did not like the boy's father”, Mr. Gunton said. “Too common, she said, and too bull-headed, although I myself think that the force needs at least some men like that. But it was something that happened only two days before the meeting that did for the boy, as far as she was concerned. She and I were walking back to her house – you may know that her husband is something of a recluse so she has to handle all their London interests – when the boy ran down the street towards us and knocked her clean into a puddle! Worse, he did not even stop to apologize!”

I frowned and thought for a moment.

“Who arranged this meeting?” I asked at last.

“Her husband did, by letter”, he said. “It was the only time she was free but luckily I was as well.”

“You are sure that it was the young man?” I asked.

“Blond-ginger hair, the same strange cut like a tonsure gone wrong, and he had that scar on his cheek”, Mr. Gunton said firmly. “I only saw him briefly because he ran off.”

It looked as if my hypothesis had been right. Now I needed Miss St. Leger to come through for me. I was sure that she would, just as I was sure that when I got back to Cramer Street I would find that LeStrade had called 'just in case'.

He had. Incredibly he had somehow swung _two_ slices of cake out of Miss Hellingly because he had looked so down, the villain! Even Gregson (who, some bastard of a doctor insisted on smirking while telling me, had called earlier) had only gotten one.

Criminals come in all shapes and sizes, it seems!

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I arranged for Master Gereint LeStrade to call by the following evening. I had a feeling that this was an interview best conducted apart from his father, unless we had wanted the latter to have a heart-attack.

“I have a question for you, sir”, I said once we had all sat down. “Not one that I would be inclined to ask you in front of your father. I need to know what you were doing at around a quarter to four last Wednesday.”

The boy immediately went bright red, as I had guessed he would. He said nothing. I sighed.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“There was a note came to the school”, he said, his voice shaking. “From Father, or so it said. It asked me to call in at a house in Maryland Avenue on my way home and collect something that would be ready for me.”

“Number thirty-one?” I asked. He nodded glumly.

“What is all this about?” Watson asked.

“That is the address of one of my stepbrother’s molly-houses”, I said. “There was of course no parcel, and only when you entered did you realize that the note had been a fake.”

Another nod.

“I should have spotted it!” the boy said exasperatedly. “Father never dots his letter 'i's but this fellow had. Also the writing was actually legible. Is it something to do with the interview, sir?”

“It is”, I said. “Someone set up an encounter in which a young man looking like you – a _doppelgänger_ as they call it nowadays – crashed into and knocked over Lady McGovern in the presence of another Board member, so she had a reason to demand that they reject you.”

The boy looked nonplussed.

“But why, sir?”

“Because she does not like your father”, I said, “and as the Good Book says, sometimes the sins of the father are visited upon the son.”

“But why would she not like Father?” he protested. “He is wonderful!”

I bit back a smile. Somewhere in London, a cake-loving policeman was blushing fiercely.

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Miss St. Leger duly came through for me, and the following evening Watson and I went to a house in Byland Terrace, Lisson Grove. It was a small but well-kept property where the Talland family lived; I felt a little sorry for what I was about to put them through but there was no help for it. To coin my annoying brother Randall's favourite phrase, one could not always make an omelette without breaking eggs, and in this case one bad egg deserved to get broken. 

Mr. James Talland was a guard on the Great Northern Railway and would I knew be off work when we called, as would his wife who would be home between jobs to make dinner. They had three children, two boys and a girl, the boys both attending Master LeStrade's school. Mr. and Mrs. Talland were both curious as to the purpose of our visit and I did not make them wait.

“What I have to tell you is, I am afraid, painful”, I said. “It concerns a foul and disreputable action undertaken by your elder son, for which he was doubtless well rewarded.”

Mrs. Talland looked dubious (although I detected what was definitely a simper in there, and with her husband barely two feet away!), but Mr. Talland seemed more accepting of my statement.

“Wondered why he had money last weekend”, he said. “Jamie, get in here!”

His elder son had very obviously been listening in on our conversation and did not apparently have enough sense to delay his entry to try to hide the fact. He slunk over to the end of the table we were all sat at and stood there, looking defiant. I smiled and reached into my pocket, then took out a small face-powder box.

“What's that?” Mrs. Talland asked. “You're not saying our boy stole it?”

“Worse”, I said, opening the box and showing its contents to her. She stared I confusion.

“Those look like.... _scabs?”_

Young James Talland made a sudden bolt for the door but his father was quicker, leaping up and intercepting him before dragging him back and placing him between him and his wife. The boy pointedly avoided everyone's eyes and stared hard at the floor, but I noticed him tremble.

“A few days ago”, I said, “the son of a good friend of mine who is in the Police Cadets was interviewed to become a police constable. He is a fine young man, athletic and upstanding, and he would have made an excellent addition to the constabulary. I was more than a little surprised, therefore, to learn that he had been rejected and for no credible reason. I made some inquiries, and found that he had reputedly run into and knocked over one of the Board members a few days prior to his interview and had failed to stop, so she had retaliated by blocking his application.”

Mr. Talland looked at me shrewdly.

“There's more?” he asked. I nodded.

“I am afraid that there is”, I said. “I thought it an _amazing_ coincidence that not only should this happen when the woman in question has openly spoken of her hatred for the boy's father, but also that it just chanced to happen at the one time when the boy was unable to provide an alibi and in the presence of a fellow Board member. Too many coincidences, so I dug further. I found that the woman had made moves to ensure that she was on the panel that interviewed the boy and, significantly, she had also gone to the boy's school. _Your_ school, Master Talland.”

The boy stayed silent, refusing to even look at me. He was definitely shaking now, though.

“She asked around to find out which of the boys at the school both disliked my friend's son and also bore a passable resemblance to him”, I said. “It was then a simple matter of some hair-dye, a haircut and one of these fake scars, so that when the lady had her ‘accident’ – conveniently witnessed by her fellow Board member who then backed her in her righteous outrage – she had a witness for her actions.”

Both the boys parents turned to look at him. I sensed that someone was not in for a good evening. Or a good next few years for that matter.

“What about that bloody woman?” Mrs. Talland asked.

“And your friend's boy?” Mr. Talland put in.

“I shall be taking steps to ensure that her life is more than a little difficult in the coming months”, I said, “and I will secure the boy a second interview. Once the Service realizes how they have been duped I am sure that they will make a better decision next time. Certainly a better decision than the sort _some_ people have been making lately!”

I looked pointedly at Master Talland, who blushed.

“Thank you for coming and telling us all this, Mr. Holmes”, Mr. Talland said. “Jamie, go get the table-tennis bat.”

The boy's eyes widened in horror.

“But dad.....”

“Do it!” his mother snapped. “It's only going to get worse the longer you make us wait!

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Postscriptum: Lady McGovern was forced to resign from the Police Board, and indeed to flee London for her husband's Scottish estate when some horrible person leaked details of her foul actions to the 'Times' (although without naming the Tallands; I made sure of that). And the Metropolitan Police Service granted Master Gereint LeStrade an interview the very next month which he passed with flying colours, and would start as a constable when his schooldays finished that summer.

By then, my own life would be ruined.

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	9. Case 60: The Adventure Of The Yellow Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. The shocking case that introduced the house that would forever be associated with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, along with its formidable (terrifying) pistol-packing landlady Mrs. Violet Hudson. A lady just about to be widowed.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It had been a tiring start to the year with my 'royal duties' concerning Prince Tane of Strafford Island, who had departed with Mr. Anthony 'Tiny' Little and a new Anglo-Straffordian treaty in return for leaving many happy ladies (and gentlemen) behind him. He had been a handsome and most affable fellow and I do not know why Holmes had not taken to him, especially considering that he had left me a most handsome thank-you gift, a black pearl whose sale had made my bank account suddenly look so much better. 

My friend and I were soon busy with our most immediate problem, namely that we were shortly to be made homeless (I had mentioned to Holmes that he could always move in with his parents and had earned myself such a look!). Miss Hellingly, soon to be Mrs. Frodsham, and her un-fragrant sister Mrs. Hall had arranged to sell the house to a family who were returning to England from Australia and wished to have a large family home in the capital. Fortunately our next case together provided us with two things, one of which was an (eventual) answer to that particular problem. 

The other thing that it brought was the terrifying knowledge as to what those in power could do with it.

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Of all the special days of the year that lay between January 1st and December 31st, the one for which I have always reserved a particular loathing is St. Valentine's Day. Fortunately Holmes had always expressed complete indifference towards it with which I fully concurred. It was bad enough dealing with patients on that day all of whom always seemed to feel compelled to ask me 'had I found that special someone yet?'. I had the friendship of the greatest man in London Town and that was more than enough for me at this point in my life, whatever certain unpleasant members of his family thought about us. They were just wrong!

This particular February the fourteenth had started well enough, or so it had seemed. I had come out to find a decent-looking breakfast awaiting my attentions (it quietly amused me that Miss Hellingly despite having a steady beau still got Holmes's bacon so crisp that it could stand up by itself). He was already at the table reading a letter, I judged some three cups of coffee in from his alert state.

“I have been offered what promises to be a most curious case”, he said. “A Mrs. Hudson of Baker Street wishes us to investigate claims made by a psychic.”

I looked at him in surprise as I forked over half of my bacon onto his plate.

“I thought you said that we had had enough of the supernatural after the late and unlamented Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley?” I said. 

“Someone who I too do not miss”, he said, “but the claims made in this instance may bear some truth. Besides, I have a hunch that this case could be important. Would you be able to accompany me?”

Fortunately it was a rare day off from the surgery where the winter weather had made us busier than usual of late so I agreed, and after breakfast we set off.

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Baker Street is one of the capital's longer thoroughfares, stretching for about a mile and a half from where it meets the north-east corner of Portman Square in the south. It is crossed by the important east-west Marylebone Road and then the main road heading north-west to Birkenhead and Liverpool before ending at the Outer Circle of the great Regent's Park. North of the Marylebone Road it is colloquially referred to as 'Upper Baker Street' and it was in this part that our destination lay. 

Our potential client owned 221B, a pleasant-looking mid-Georgian house on the western side of the street and some little distance from the tube station (which was a lot quieter back then as it had yet to develop into the major transport hub that it later became, mercifully starting the year after our final departure from it) and quite close to the Outer Circle. From the look of things the house had clearly been part of a much larger building at one time which had been sub-divided into three, Mrs. Hudson's house being on the right as we looked at it. There was an alleyway leading through to the back between it and numbers 223, 225 and 227, another set of three houses which did not look quite as old, although I judged that it was still Georgian.

Mrs. Hudson was a formidable-looking lady whom I judged to be somewhere about thirty-five years of age and who rather unusually dressed older than her age; I would only later find out that she was older than me but younger than Holmes. She looked both Holmes and myself up and down appraisingly before bidding us enter and I was felt that we has passed some sort of unspoken test (had I known then that she not only kept but was highly skilled in the use of a pistol I would have been even gladder!). And incredibly she did not simper at Holmes.

 _Yet_ an unhelpful voice snarked at the back of my mind. I ignored it.

The lady ushered us into her own room at the back of the house where coffee and cakes were waiting for us. Once we were comfortable she began.

“I read the good doctor's stories about you in the magazine, Mr. Holmes”, she said still eyeing him cautiously. “If you are as good as they say you are then perhaps you can locate something of mine that has gone missing?”

 _Please God not another lost dog_ , I thought silently. Holmes had had three such requests of late, all from people who had presumably thought that they were doing my friend a favour by 'honouring' him with their cases.

“My husband.”

Not another lost dog, apparently. That even elicited a raised eyebrow from Holmes.

“Surely an errant spouse is a matter for the police?” he asked eyeing a white meringue. She had scored well with the coffee; if someone had told our prospective client about his sweet tooth she had him truly hooked. I was rather more restrained, thankfully, and.... was that a _chocolate_ éclair?

“What I am about to tell you is bad”, Mrs. Hudson said looking quite nervous. “I know from your stories that I can trust the doctor of course.”

Holmes shot me a look which quite clearly said 'you vain bastard!' I was however concentrating on my éclair which was most delicious, so I did not see it.

“Of course”, my friend said, looking hard at me for some reason. 

“It is like this”, she said. “Bill is a policeman at the station down the road but he also collects rent money for a friend of his who has property in the area and lives out in the country. The uniform makes them more likely to pay up, I suppose. He came home from work last Friday as normal and everything seemed fine. Then he said that he was going to two of Fred's houses to collect the moneys owed. _He never came back.”_

“The police have not conducted inquiries?” I asked surprised.

She looked around again, seemingly fearful of anyone overhearing her even though we were in a closed room. I was beginning to get a bad feeling about this case.

“His friend Archie who works at the same station dropped in yesterday morning on his way in to work”, she said quietly. “He told me that someone had sent down an instruction to the station to 'stop looking for Hudson'. He only knows that because his son is dating the inspector's secretary Glenda; she came round for tea that same day. She told me that when the letter came she thought her boss was going to faint. He told everyone that another station was taking over the case but she said that he never sent over any files, so she thinks that was a lie.”

“It is now Tuesday”, Holmes mused, “so your husband has been gone for four days, Mrs. Hudson. The trail is somewhat cold.”

“I did not know who to turn to”, she said miserably. “Then... the strangest thing happened. A gypsy fellow came by.”

We both looked at her in confusion. Gypsies were hardly uncommon in London, after all. She frowned.

“I do not know how to put this”, she said looking at Holmes, “but he looked a lot like you, sir. Different hair of course and a lot less tidy, but the same sort of face if you know what I mean. Bill always says to treat his folks right so I told him I would put together a few things. He looked at me afterwards and said I was in trouble but should call on the detective fellow in Cramer Street. So I looked you up.”

 _A lot less tidy?_ I thought with a smile. _He must have looked terrible!_

“Intriguing”, Holmes said, shaking his head at me for some reason. “There is definitely something odd about this case and I believe that it warrants urgent investigation. I rather think that you friend 'Archie' may be our best way of getting a start on this case. If you can tell us where he patrols we shall endeavour to talk to him.”

She smiled in relief.

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“I do hope that you are not raising that dear lady's hopes”, I said as we left. “As you said the trail is cold by now.”

He looked at me curiously. There was a long silence between us. My bad feeling was getting ever stronger.

“Mrs. Hudson said that her husband's friend patrols not far from this house, he observed. “We must find him and question him. On his rounds, not at his station or anywhere else where we might be seen.”

“There is something dark about this case, is there not?” I asked worriedly.

Holmes effected a small smile; not one of his real ones I knew. 

“The London constabulary may have a great variation of quality amongst its policemen”, he said, “but they protect their own. For this case to have been dropped – for make no bones about it there will be no official investigation into Mr. William Hudson's disappearance – someone very high up would have had to have given a direct order. The sort of person who could back that order with the threat of fear, even death. Most likely a politician or government official like Randall.”

“But why would a London constable's disappearance be of interest to someone in the government?” I asked, bewildered. 

Holmes stopped and looked at me.

“Because they were almost certainly the ones who made him disappear”, he said quietly.

He walked on. I stood dumbstruck on the pavement for some moments before snapping out of my stupor and hurrying after him.

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Constable Archibald Jones was not happy to see us, that was clear. What with the disappearance of his colleague and Holmes's attitude, I could perhaps understand why.

“I don't need to be seen talking to you two”, he muttered as the three of us sat in the snug at the Swan. “Look what happened to poor Bill.”

“That is why we waited until you had gone in here”, Holmes said. “I have already persuaded the landlord to allow us to leave via the back door, and I can assure you that that we have not been followed here. Sir, Mrs. Hudson says that you were the last person to see her husband alive. You told her something; surely you owe it to her to help actually _find_ her husband?”

The policeman stared darkly into his beer.

“Bill's gone”, he muttered.

“What do you mean, 'gone'?” I asked, wondering why he had not just said that his friend was dead. The constable sighed and straightened up. 

“I'll tell you all I know”, he said, “for Vi's sake. But off the record. Right?”

“Of course”, Holmes said. “Go on.”

The constable took a large drink and I could see that he was actually shaking. _What on earth were we dealing with here?_

“Bill came to my place after he'd been to his second collection, up Glentworth Street”, he said. “He was as white as a sheet. He said everything had been hunky-dory right up to the last chap at 16A. There was a notice on the door saying to keep out but of course he knocked. When no-one answered he tried to go in but he was halfway through the door when someone inside grabbed him and threw him out. Bill was a big bloke but he said this guy handled him like a pro.”

“You are using the past tense”, Holmes observed. “Why do you think that your friend is no more?”

“Coming to that”, the policeman muttered taking another drink; Holmes gestured to me and I went to the hatch to request a refill for him. “As I said, he came to my house looking like death warmed up. He said that inside the room he'd seen a man sitting up in bed. The chap's face was bright yellow with sores all over!”

 _“Bright yellow?”_ I asked, returning with his drink which he accepted gratefully. He nodded.

“I asked him about that and he said it was like yellow paint”, he said. “Bill was sure the fellow had some infectious disease and it made him jumpy. He didn't want to go back home to his missus but I insisted. Anyways he was barely out of the gate when two carriages pulled up, then three guys got out and dragged him into one of them. They all had masks on as well; the hospital type not the acting ones. I yelled and rushed up to help but two more masked guys got out and threatened me that they'd have my wife and kids killed if I so much as breathed a word down at the station. One of them had a gun.”

“Fortunately we are not policemen” Holmes said reassuringly. “We really have taken up too much of your valuable time, constable. My friend and I will now leave via the rear exit of this establishment and I suggest that you wait twenty minutes before leaving by the front.”

“But what if...?”

“Have faith, Mr. Jones”, Holmes said. “Goodbye.”

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“There is a man who lives in fear for his life”, I said. 

“Yes”, Holmes agreed. “With good reason. He will be watched from the moment that he leaves the pub.”

“How can you know that?” I asked.

“Because the man who has been following him for the last few days spoke to the landlord, who assured him that Constable Jones always spends his lunch-break in the snug. As I told him to say.”

“I did not see anyone following him”, I said. 

“That is rather the point”, he said, a little smugly I thought. “I have some messages to send before I return home. Would you care to walk to the post-office with me?”

“Of course”, I smiled.

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There was a small coffee-shop next door to our local post-office so I sat down with a newspaper while Holmes sent his messages. After fifteen minutes or so he emerged but walked right by my table to where a rather corpulent elderly gentleman was sitting and slammed his hand down hard on the table, rousing the fellow from his half-sleep. I thought this rather rude but before I could say anything Holmes had leaned over and was whispering something in the elderly gentleman's ear. Whatever it was caused the man to turn a shade of white that nearly had me rushing to his aid, then he stood up and almost sprinted away with an amazing turn of pace for one so old. Holmes returned to our table looking pleased.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“The fellow who has been following us ever since we left Mrs. Hudson's house”, he said. “Except where we caught the cab.”

I stared at him in shock.

“So that was why you insisted we suddenly take one!” I exclaimed. “And why we only went a few streets?”

“I wished to cause them to lose us for a time”, he explained. “I dare say that our shadow had an uncomfortable time ferreting around the area before he caught up with us after we reached here.”

I finished my coffee.

“So where next?” I asked.

“Cramer Street”, was the surprising answer. I stared at my friend.

“The house?” I asked. “You are giving up?”

He sighed unhappily.

“I never give up”, he said. “But I expect the solution to the crime will be there, perhaps even before we are. It will not be pretty but we must make the best of a bad job.”

I had no idea when he said that as to just how true those words were to prove to be.

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It was half a mile back to the house and there were two carriages parked outside when we arrived. Judging from the expression on Miss Hellingly's face one or both of the visitors was Important. We ascended to our rooms and I was less than pleased to find them occupied by two people, one of whom was the obnoxious Mr. Randall Holmes (he had I knew been dispatched to Scotland for a few months but presumably they too had had enough of him, worse luck). The other fellow was in his fifties; short, fat and looking far more self-important than any true gentleman ever should. He had so much cream on his hair that it was almost dripping off; I wondered idly if the stuff was flammable. He was not that far from the fire....

Notably I did not get the usual disapproving look from someone. Mr. Randall Holmes however contrived to make up for it by glowering at us both.

“You really have gone too far this time, Sher”, he said sententiously. “This is one case that you will _have_ to drop.”

Holmes just looked at him. He took a half-step back.

“Sher _lock_ ” he muttered. I increased my hopes for imminent violence and prepared to look pointedly in the other direction for a few hours.

“Who says he should drop the case?” I demanded.

“Her Britannic Majesty's Government”, said the short man staring at us both as if we were something that had just crawled out of a drain. “John Barnier, Minister without Portfolio.”

“The government fixer for medical matters”, Mr. Randall Holmes explained. “He sorts out the political messes that could cost thousands of lives. Like the one you two idiots went and blundered into.”

Holmes sat in his chair and stared coldly at his brother. I was sure that despite the fire, the temperature in the room fell by several degrees. Even Mr. Barnier shuddered.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Randall”, Holmes growled. “This is low even by your 'standards'!”

To my surprise his older brother blushed.

“We do not have time for this nonsense!” Mr. Barnier snapped. “How much do you know?”

“I know everything”, Holmes said airily. “Unless you agree to every one of my terms, your government will not see out the week.”

There was a cold silence in the room.

“Those are fighting words, Mr. Holmes”, Mr. Barnier said, his eyes glinting dangerously. “You are bluffing.”

Holmes turned to look at him and even our visitor flinched under that azure gaze. There was a long silence before the detective spoke.

“The occupant of 16A?” he asked.

“Dead, or will be in twenty-four hours”, his brother said.

“Mr. William Hudson?”

“Seventy-two hours at most. Probably less.”

Holmes nodded then pressed his long hands together. 

“It is a dark business”, he said heavily. “How did the man come to be in that room in the first place?”

Mr. Barnier snorted but answered.

“He is one Mr. Ernest Sikes. A minor clerk in the War Department, he was involved with the passing of some sensitive papers to a certain Foreign Power.”

“He stole them?” I asked.

Mr. Barnier glared at me for daring to interrupt. I subsided.

“The papers were transferred successfully and he returned to his flat. However during the journey he contracted a virulent form of leprosy. The man we assigned to guard him, Phelps, has his own incurable disease so he accepted the post in return for an increased pension for his wife and children.”

“You threatened Constable Jones's family”, Holmes said coldly.

“We could not risk the man talking!” Mr. Barnier snapped. 

“Is there any danger of the constable himself being infected?” I asked worriedly.

“Not now”, Mr. Randall Holmes said. “Symptoms manifest within twenty-four hours of infection at most and the victim rarely lasts more than a week. Mr. Sikes returned last Wednesday.”

“You will not inform Mrs. Hudson of this”, Mr. Barnier said.

To my surprise Holmes chuckled, as did his brother.

“Oh Johnnie!” Mr. Randall Holmes grinned, “how little you know us Holmeses. I would wager, doctor, that you stopped at a post-office on the way home?”

“We did”, I said. “You had us followed, I know.”

Mr. Randall Holmes turned to his colleague. 

“I can guarantee that my brother has set in motion a chain of messages which, if unchecked, will result in at least one major government scandal being front page news by tomorrow at the latest”, he said calmly. He turned to his brother before asking, “which one did you choose?”

“The bigamy”, Holmes said calmly. “Or perhaps I should say, the quadragamy? If that is the word for four concurrent wives.”

Mr. Barnier had gone a rather interesting shade of white. I supposed that he might need a doctor. Pity.

“What do you want, Sher?” Mr. Randall Holmes asked patiently.

“To tell father about you and the Pentonville sisters”, Holmes said. “If you call me 'Sher' one more time today, I will!”

“Sorry”, Mr. Randall Holmes muttered. I did not crow but it was close.

All right, I crowed!

“Better”, Holmes said, nodding in my direction. “First, a written assurance to Constable Jones that he and his family are safe from any retribution. He is now under _my_ protection and any actions taken against him will be seen as hostile. Kindly be advised that I shall be keeping in contact with him, and any 'accidents' that he or his may happen to encounter will be followed very soon after by some most unpleasant revelations for the government of the day, whichever one it is. I shall tell you this Mr. Barnier; if you think foreign administrations are a problem, then you and your government will not survive twenty-four hours of _my_ displeasure.”

“Fair enough”, Mr. Barnier said shortly. 

“Second, Mrs. Hudson to continue to receive her husband's salary in the form of a pension. She mentioned that she has a teenage niece who will shortly be coming to live with her, so she will need the money.”

“I do not know if....” Mr. Randall Holmes began.

“Done”, Mr. Barnier cut in. The lounge-lizard looked at him in surprise but did not say anything.

“Third, you will allow Mr. William Hudson to sign his wife a letter explaining that he cannot see her again because of the risk of infection. I myself shall write what can be said and Mr. Hudson can rewrite it and sign it so that his wife knows it is indeed from him. You will then bring the letter to me and I will deliver it to her personally.”

“All right”, Mr. Randall Holmes said. “I can deliver it for you if you like.”

Holmes smiled.

“No, Randall. I do not trust you.”

“Why not?” his brother demanded.

_”Because I know you!”_

Mr. Randall Holmes scowled. I did not smile.

All right, I smiled. But come on!

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We showed our unwelcome guests out and I sighed in relief. 

“Thank heavens that they are gone!” I exclaimed opening the window to let some fresh (or at least London) air in. 

“Indeed”, Holmes said quietly. I looked at him.

“There is something more to this”, I said. He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment.

“Mr. Sikes's journey was to Constantinople”, he said.

“I see”, I said, not seeing. 

He looked hard at me. Suddenly I got it and all but fell into my chair. He moved swiftly to pour me a whisky and I downed it in one shot.

“The 'paint' was to mask the.....?” He nodded.

“Yes”, he said. “The outbreak of any disease would cause a panic, but the uncovering of a case of the bubonic plague in the capital stirs many memories, even those over two centuries old. With the city already on edge over these accursed Irish terrorists such a story could have caused a widespread panic. There would have been many injuries and even deaths and people tried to flee in droves.”

“I see it now”, I said. “Poor Mrs. Hudson.”

“Yes”, Holmes said. “I do hope that dear Randall keeps his word about that letter. The bigamy – or 'quadragamy' - scandal is one of eight that I am currently aware of, and that is only in the Commons. I am sure that the Lords is even worse!”

I gulped.

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It was three days later and we were back in Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson thanked us for bringing her the letter.

“It was so good of you to arrange everything”, she said wiping her eyes. “Poor Bill. He was always worried being a copper, yet it was the side-job that did for him.”

“I am glad that the Metropolitan Police Service is to offer you a full pension”, Holmes said. She smiled.

“I can hardly believe that, seeing as he was not even on the job when he... well, when”, she said. “But he explained that what he did – reporting straight to the nearest hospital and all that – spared the city an epidemic that could have killed thousands, in both infections and people getting hurt trying to get away. It was the least that they could do for his doing the right thing.”

“I do hope that you will not have to move”, I said. “The house is rather large.”

She nodded.

“Bill heard that they were planning to make the station bigger and thought buying a house with a few rooms would mean we could rent out to the new officers”, she said. “But they decided to expand the Edgeware Road station instead, so we were stuck. Though I have managed to get tenants for three of the five rooms.”

Holmes and I both looked up sharply.

“You are looking for tenants?” I asked.

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